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THE 

HAPPY FOREIGNER 


BY 

ENID BAGNOLD 



NEW YORK 
THE CENTURY CO. 
1920 



\ y‘ ' . 

' s » . • 


Copyriglit, 1920, by 

The Century Co. 

i 






. <1 







©CI,A576127 

AUO 2i lu^'O 

^ ... 


/ 


CONTENTS 


PART I THE BLACK HUT AT BAR 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Traveler 3 

PART II LORRAINE 

II Metz 31 

III JUUEN . 50 

IV Verdun 65 

V Verdun . 86 

VI The Lover in the Lamp 101 

VII The Three “Cuents” 118 


VIII Germany 131 

IX The Crinoline 141 

X Fanny Robbed and Rescued , , , . 156 

XI The Last Night in Metz: the Journey , 173 

PART HI THE FORESTS OF CHANTILLY 


XH Precy-Sur-Oise 195 

XHI The Inn 207 

XIV The River 227 

XV Alues 246 

XVI The Ardennes 260 

PART IV SPRING IN CHARLEVILLE 

XVH The Stuffed Owl 271 

XVHI Philippe’s House 284 

XIX Philippe’s Mother 295 

XX The Last Day 308 


















PROLOGUE 


THE EVE 

B etween the gray walls of its bath — so like 
its cradle and its coffin — lay one of those 
small and lonely creatures which inhabit the sur- 
face of the earth for seventy years. 

As on every other evening the sun was sinking 
and the moon, unseen, was rising. 

The round head of flesh and bone floated upon 
the deep water of the bath. 

‘‘Why should I move?” rolled its thoughts, be- 
witched by solitude. “The earth itself is mov- 
ing. 

“Summer and winter and winter and summer 
I have traveled in my head, saying — ‘All secrets, 
all wonders, lie within the breast!’ But now that 
is at an end, and to-morrow I go upon a journey. 

“I have been accustomed to finding something in 
nothing — how do I know if I am equipped for a 
larger horizon! . . .” 

And suddenly the little creature chanted 
aloud : — 

“The strange things of travel. 

The East and the West, 

The hill beyond the hill, — 

They lie within the breast!” 



PART I 

THE BLACK HUT AT BAR 


/ 



THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


CHAPTER I 


THE TRAVELER 



'HE war had stopped. 


Jl The King of England was in Paris, and the 
President of the United States was hourly ex- 
pected. 

Humbler guests poured each night from the 
termini into the overflowing city, and sought anx- 
iously for some bed, lounge-chair, or pillowed cor- 
ner, in which to rest until the morning. Stretched 
upon the table in a branch of the Y. W. C. A. lay 
a young woman from, England whose clothes were 
of brand-new khaki, and whose name was Fanny. 

She had arrived that night at the Gare du Nord 
at eight o’clock, and the following night at eight 
o’clock she left Paris by the Gare de I’Est. 

Just as she entered the station a small boy with 
a basket of violets for sale held a bunch to her 
face. 


“No, thank you.” 


3 


4 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


He pursued her and held it against her chin. 

“No, thank you.” 

“But I give it to you! I give it to you!” 

As she had neither slept on the boat from South- 
ampton nor on the table of the Y. W. C. A., tears 
of pleasure came into her eyes as she took them. 
But while she dragged her heavy kit-bag and her 
suit-case across the platform another boy of a dif- 
ferent spirit ran beside her. 

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! Wait a min- 
ute » . .” he panted. 

“Well?” 

“Haven’t you heard . . . haven’t you heard! 
The war is over!” 

She continued to drag the weighty sack behind 
her over the platform. “She did n’t know!” 
howled the wicked boy. “No one had told her!” 

And in the train which carried her towards the 
dead of night the taunt and the violets accompanied 
her. 

At half -past two in the morning she reached the 
station of Bar-le-Duc. The rain rattled down 
through the broken roof as she crossed the lines 
to the platform on the further side, where, vaguely 
expecting to be met, she questioned civilians and 
military police. But the pall of death that hung 
over Bar stretched even to the station, where no- 


THE TRAVELER 


5 


body knew anything, expected anything, cared any- 
thing, except to hurry out and away into the rain. 

She, too, followed at last, leaving her bag and 
box in the corner of a deserted office, and cross- 
ing the station yard tramped out in the thick mud 
on to a bridge. The rain was falling in torrents, 
and crouching for a minute in a doorway she made 
her bundles faster and buttoned up her coat. 
Roofs jutted above her, pavements sounded under 
her feet, the clock struck three near by. If there 
was an hotel anywhere there was no one to give 
information about it. The last train had emptied 
itself, the travelers had hurried off into the night, 
and not a foot rang upon the pavements. The 
rain ran in a stream down her cap and on to her 
face; down her sleeves and on to her hands. 

A light further up the street attracted her atten- 
tion, and walking towards it she found that it came 
from an open doorway above which she could make 
out the letters “Y. M. C. A.” 

She did not know with what complicated feel- 
ings she would come to regard these letters — ^with 
what gratitude mixed with irritation, self-reproach 
with greed. 

Climbing the steps she looked inside. The hall 
of the building was paved with stone, and on a 
couple of dozen summer chairs of cane sat as many 


6 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


American officers, dozing in painful attitudes of 
unrest. By each ran a stream of water that tric- 
kled from his clothes, and the streams, joining each 
other, formed aimless rivers upon the floor. 

The eye of a captain opened. 

“Come in, ma’am,” he said without moving. 
She wondered whether she could. 

The eye of a lieutenant opened. 

“Come in, ma’am,” he said, and rose. “Take 
my chair.” 

“Could you tell me if there is any hotel?” 

“There is some sort of a shanty down the street. 
I ’ll take you.” 

Further up the street a faint light shone under 
a slit between two boards. There was no door 
near it, no keyhole or shutter. The American 
thundered at the boards with a tin of jam which 
he took out of his pocket. The noise was mon- 
strous in the blackness, but the town had heard 
noises more monstrous than that, and it lay in a 
barred and blind, unanswering stupor. 

“God!” said the American, quickly angered, 
and kicked the board till the slit grew larger. 
The light went out. 

“Some one is coming round to the door,” said 
Fanny, in time to prevent the destruction of the 
board. 


THE TRAVELER 


7 


Higher up the street bolts were being withdrawn 
and a light fell upon the pavement. “Who ’s 
there?” creaked a voice. The American moved 
towards the light. 

“The hotel is shut to Americans,” said the voice. 

“The devil it is,” shouted the American. “And 
why, then?” 

“Man killed here last night,” said the voice 
briefly. Fanny moved towards the light and saw 
an old man with a shawl upon his shoulders, who 
held a candle fixed in the neck of a bottle. 

“I am English,” she said to the old man. “I 
am alone. I want a room alone.” 

“I ’ve a room ... If you’re not American!” 

“I don’t know what kind of a hole this is,” said 
the American wrathfully. “I think you ’d better 
come right back to the ‘Y.’ Say, here, what kind 
of a row was this last night you got a man killed 
in?” 

“Kind of row your countrymen make,” mut- 
tered the old man, and added “Bandits!” 

Soothing, on the one hand, entreating on the 
other, the girl got rid of her new friend, and ef- 
fected an entrance into the hotel. (“If hotel it 
is!” she thought, in the brief passage of a panic 
while the old man stooped to the bolts of the 
door.) 


8 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“I’ve got rooms enough,” he said, “rooms 
enough. Now they ’ve gone. Follow me.” 

She followed his candle flame and he threw open 
a door upon the ground floor. 

“I ’ve no light to give you.” 

“Yet I must have a light.” 

Grumbling, he produced half an inch of wax 
candle. 

“Hurry into bed and that wiU last you. It’s 
all I have.” 

The bed wore a colored rug, bare and thin, 
an eiderdown, damp and musty. Spreading her 
wet mackintosh on the top she rolled herself up 
as well as she could, and developing a sort of 
warmth towards morning, slept an hour or two. 
The daylight showed her nothing to wash in, no 
jug, no basin, no bell to pull. 

As no one would come to her, as there was noth- 
ing to be gained by waiting, she got up, and going 
into the hall, entered a dark coffee-room in which 
breakfast was served at its lowest ebb, black coffee, 
feugarless, and two pieces of dry bread. 

Yet, having eaten, fehe was able to think: “I 
am a soldier of five sous. I am here to drive for 
the French Army.” And her thoughts pleased her 
;so well that, at the moment when her circumstances 
were in their gtate of least perfection, she ex- 


THE TRAVELER 


9 


claimed: “How right I was to come!” and set 
off down the street to find her companions. 

A mile out of the town upon the banks of a 
tributary of the Meuse stood a deserted glass fac- 
tory which had been converted by the French into 
a garage for a fleet of thirty cars. Above the 
garage was a large attic used as a dormitory for 
the mechanics, soldier-cooks, drivers and clerks. 
In a smaller room at the end slept the non-commis- 
sioned officers — the brigadier and the two mare- 
chals des logis. 

A hundred yards from the factory, built upon 
the brink of the stream which was now in flood, 
and reached from the road by a narrow wooden 
bridge, stood a tarred hut of wood and tarpaulin. 
It was built upon simple lines. A narrow corri- 
dor ran down the center of it, and on either hand 
were four square cells divided one from the other 
by gray paper stretched upon laths of wood — mak- 
ing eight in all. At one end was a small hall filled 
with mackintoshes. At the other a sitting-room. 

This was the home of the women drivers at- 
tached to the garage. In one of these paper cells, 
henceforward to be her own, Fanny set up her in- 
timate life. 

t • t 

Outside the black hut the jet-black night poured 


10 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


water down. Inside, the eight cubicles held each 
a woman, a bed, and a hurricane lantern. Fanny, 
in her paper box, listened to the scratching of a 
pen next door, then turned her eyes as a new and 
nearer scratching caught her ear. A bright-eyed 
rat stared at her through the hole it had made in 
the wall. 

“Food is in!” 

Out of the boxes came the eight women to eat 
pieces of dark meat from a tin set on the top of 
the sitting-room stove — then cheese and bread. 
The watery night turned into sleet and rattled like 
tin-foil on the panes. 

“Where is Stewart?” 

“She is not back yet.” 

Soon the eight crept back to their boxes and sat 
again by the lamps to read or dam or write. They 
lived so close to each other that even the most 
genial had learnt to care for solitude, and the sit- 
ting-room remained mournfully empty. 

The noise of Stewart’s feet sounded in the cor- 
ridor. She swung a lantern in her hand ; her face 
was shining, her hair streaming. 

“Is there any food?” 

“It ’s on the stove.” 

“Is it eatable?” 

“No.” 


THE TRAVELER 


11 


Silence for a while, and then one by one they 
crept out into the black mud beyond the hut to 
fill their cans with hot water from the cook-house 
— and so to bed, on stretchers slung on trestles, 
where those who did not sleep listened through 
the long night to those who slept too well. 

“Are you awake?” came with the daylight. 
“Ah, you are washing! You are doing your hair!” 
There was no privacy. 

“How cold, how cold the water is! . . .” sighed 
Fanny. And a voice through the paper wall, 
catching the shivering whisper, exclaimed: “Use 
your hot-water bottle!” 

“What for?” 

“Empty it into your basin. If you have kept it 
in your bed all night you wiU find the water has 
the chill off.” 

Those who had to be out early had left before 
the daylight, still with their lanterns swinging in 
their hands; had battled with the cold cars in the 
unlighted garage, and were moving alone across 
the long desert of the battlefields. 

On the first morning she was tested on an old 
ambulance, and passed the test. On the second 
morning she got her first run upon a Charron car 
that had been assigned to her. 

Driving into Bar-le-Duc in the early morning 


12 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


under a gray flood of rain she asked of a passer-by, 
“Which is the Rue Thierry?” She got no answer. 
The French, too poor and wet, did not trouble to 
reply; the Americans did not know. As she drove 
along at the Side of the road there came a roar out 
of the distance, and a stream of American lorries 
thundered down the street. Men, women and chil- 
dren ran for their lives to gain the pavements, 
and as the lorries passed, a mud-spout covered 
Fanny’s face and hands, and dripped from her 
wind-screen. 

“Why do they drive like that?” she wondered, 
hunting blindly for her handkerchief, and mop- 
ping at her face. She thought there must be some 
desperate need calling for the lorries, and looked 
after them with respect. 

When she had found her street, and fetched her 
“client,” she drove at his order to Souilly, upon the 
great road to Verdun. And all day, calling at 
little villages upon the way, where he had busi- 
ness, she drove with the caution of the newcomer. 
It seemed to her that she had need for caution. 
She saw a Ford roll over, leave the road, and drop 
into the ditch. The wild American who had driven 
it to its death, pulled himself up upon the road, 
and limping, hailed a passing lorry, and went 
upon his way. 


THE TRAVELER 


13 


She saw a horse gallop out of a camp with a 
terrified Annamite upon its back. Horse and An- 
namite shot past her on the road, the yellow man’s 
eyes popping from his head, his body slipping, 
falling, falling. When she would have slowed 
the car to watch the end of the flight her client 
cried to her: ‘^Why do you wait?” 

Enormous American guns, trailed behind lorries 
driven by pink-faced boys, swayed from side to 
side on the greasy road, and threatened to crush 
her like an egg-shell. 

Everywhere she saw a wild disregard for life, 
everywhere she winced before the menace of speed, 
of weight, of thundering metal. 

In the late afternoon, returning home in the half- 
light, she overtook a convoy of lorries driven by 
Annamites. 

Hooting with her horn she crept past three lorries 
and drew abreast of the fourth; then, misjudging, 
she let the tip of her low mudguard touch the front 
wheel of the foremost lorry. The touch was so 
light that she had passed on, but at a cry she drew 
up and looked back. The lorry which she had 
touched was overhanging the edge of the road, 
and its radiator, striking a tree, had dropped down 
into the valley below. Climbing from her car she 
ran back and was instantly surrounded by a crowd 


14 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


of Annamites who chirped and twittered at her, 
and wrung their little hands. 

“What can I do? . . she said to them aloud, 
in distress. 

But they understood nothing, and seemed to echo 
in their strange bird language, “What can we do 
. . . what can we do? . . “And I . . .” she 
thought in consternation, “am responsible for this!” 

But the last lorry had drawn alongside, and a 
French sergeant descended from it and joined the 
Annamites. He walked to the edge of the road, 
saw the radiator below upon a rock, and shrugged 
his shoulders. Catching sight of Fanny’s face of 
horror he laughed. 

“Ne vous era fattes pas, mademoiselle! These 
poor devils sleep as they drive. Yes, even with 
their eyes open. We started nine this morning. 
We were four when we met you — and now we are 
three!” 

On the third morning the rain stopped for an 
hour or two. Fanny had no run tiU the after- 
noon, and going into the garage in the morning she 
set to work on her car. 

“Where can I get water?” she asked a man. 

“The pump is broken,” he replied. “I backed 
my car against it last night. But there is a tap 
by that broken wall on the piece of waste ground.” 


THE TRAVELER 


15 


She crossed to the wall with her bucket. 

Standing upon the waste ground was an old, 
closed limousine whose engine had long been in- 
jured past repair. One of the glass windows was 
broken, but she was as roomy and comfortable as 
a first-class railway carriage, and the men often 
sat in her in a spare moment. 

The yard cleared suddenly for the eleven o’clock 
meal. As Fanny passed the limousine a man ap- 
peared at the broken window and beckoned to her. 
His face was white, and he wore his shirt, trousers, 
and braces. She stopped short with the bucket in 
her hand. 

“On est delivre de cette bande!” he said, point- 
ing to the yard, and she went a little nearer. 

“Wait till I get my coat on,” he said softly to 
her, and struggled into his coat. 

He put both his hands on the window ledge, 
leant towards her, and said clearly: “Je suis le 
president Wilson.” 

“You are the President Wilson,” she echoed, 
hunting for the joke, and willing to smile. He 
passed her out his water-bottle and a tin box. 
“You must fill these for me,” he said. “Fill the 
bottle with wine, and get me bread and meat. Be 
quick. You know I must be off. The King ex- 
pects me.” 


16 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Where have you come from?” 

“I slept here last night. I have come far. But 
I must be quick now, for it ’s late, and ... I be- 
lieve in Freedom!” he finished emphatically. 

“Well, will you wait till I make you up a parcel 
of food?” 

“Only be quick.” 

“Will you wait in the car? Promise to wait!” 

“Yes. Be quick. Look sharp.” 

She put down her bucket and stretched up her 
hand for the bottle and the box. He held them 
above her a second, hesitating, then put them into 
her hand. She turned fr«m him and went back 
into the yard. As she approached the door of the 
room where the men sat eating she looked round 
and Saw that he was watching her intently. She 
waved once, soothingly, then slipped into the long 
room filled with the hum of voices and the smell 
of gravy. 

“There is' a poor madman in the yard,” she 
whispered to the man nearest her. The others 
looked up. 

“They ’ve lost a man from the asylum, I heard 
in the town this morning,” said one. “We must 
keep him here till we telephone. Have you told 
the brigadier, mademoiselle?” 


THE TRAVELER 17 

“You tell him. I’ll go back and talk to the 
man. Ask the brigadier to telephone.” 

“I ’ll come with you, mademoiselle,” said an- 
other. “Where is he?” 

“In the old limousine by the water tap. He is 
quiet. Don’t frighten him by coming all to- 
gether.” Chairs and benches were pushed back, 
and the men stood up in groups. 

“We will go round by the gate in case he makes 
a run for it. Better not use force if one can help 
it . . 

Fanny and her companion went out to the car. 
“Where is my food and wine?” called the man. 

“It ’s coming,” answered Fanny, “they are doing 
it up in the kitchen.” 

“Well, I can’t wait. I must go without it. I 
can’t keep the King waiting.” And he opened the 
door of the limousine. As he stood on the step 
he held a bundle of rusty weapons. 

“What ’s that you ’ve got?” 

“Bosche daggers,” he said. “See!” He held 
one towards her, without letting it go from his 
hand. 

“Where did you find those?” 

“On the battlefields.” He climbed down the 
steps. 


18 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Stay a moment,” said Fanny. I ’m in a diffi- 
culty. Will you help me?” 

“What ’s that? But I Ve no time . . .” 

“Do you know about cars?” 

“I was in the trade,” he nodded his head. 

“I have trouble ... I cannot tell what to do. 
Will you come and see?” 

“If it ’s a matter of a moment. But I must be 
away.” 

“If you leave all those things in the car you 
could fetch them as you go,” suggested Fanny, 
eying the daggers. 

The man whistled and screwed up one eye. 
“When one believes in Freedom one must go 
armed,” he said. “Show me the car.” 

Going with her to the car-shed he looked at the 
spark-plugs of the car, at her suggestion unscrew- 
ing three from their seatings. At the fourth he 
grew tired, and said fretfully: “Now I must be 
off. You know I must. The King expects me.” 

He walked to the gate of the yard, and she saw 
the men behind the gate about to close on him. 
“You ’re not wearing your decorations!” she called 
after him. He stopped, looked down, looked a 
little troubled. \ 

She took the gilt safety pin from her tie, the 
safety pin that held her collar to her blouse at the 


THE TRAVELER 


19 


back, and another from the back of her skirt, and 
pinned them along his poor coat. An ambulance 
drove quickly into the yard, and three men, de- 
scending from it, hurried towards them. At sight 
of them the poor madman grew frantic, and turn- 
ing upon Fanny he cried: ‘‘You are against me!” 
then ran across the yard. She shut her eyes that 
she might not see them hunt the lover of freedom, 
and only opened them when a man cried in tri- 
umph: “IFe 7/ take you to the King!” 

“Pauvre malheureux!” muttered the drivers in 
the yard. 

Day followed day and there was plenty of work. 
Officers had to be driven upon rounds of two hun- 
dred kilometers a day — interviewing mayors of 
ruined villages, listening to claims, assessing dam- 
age caused by French troops in billets. Others in- 
spected distant motor parks. Others made offers 
to purchase old iron among the villages in order 
to prove thefts from the battlefields. 

The early start at dawn, the flying miles, the 
winter dusk, the long hours of travel by the faint 
light of the acetylene lamps filled day after day; 
the unsavory meal eaten alone by the stove, the 
book read alone in the cubicle, the fitful sleep 
upon the stretcher, filled night after night. 

A loneliness beyond anything she had ever 


20 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


known settled upon Fanny. She found comfort 
in a look, a cry, a whistle. The smiles of strange 
men upon the road whom she would never see again 
became her social intercourse. The lost smiles 
of kind Americans, the lost, mocking whistles of 
Frenchmen, the scream of a nigger, the twittering 
Surprise of a Chinese scavenger. 

Yet she was glad to have come, for half the 
world was here. There could have been nothing 
like it since the Tower of Babel. The country 
around her was a vast tract of men sick with long- 
ing for the four corners of the earth. 

“Have you got to be here?” asked an Ameri- 
can. 

“No, I wanted to come.” 

The eye of the American said “Fool!” 

“Are you paid to come here?” asked a French- 
man. 

“No. In a sense, I pay to come.” The eye of 
the Frenchman said, “Englishwoman!” 

Each day she drove in a wash of rain. Each 
night she returned long after dark, and putting 
her car in the garage, felt her way up the inky road 
by the rushing of the river at its edge, crossed the 
wooden bridge, and entered the ceU which she 
tried to make her personal haven. 

But if personal, it was the personality of a dog. 


THE TRAVELER 


21 


it had the character of a kennel. She had brought 
no furnishings with her from England; she could 
buy nothing in the town. The wooden floor was 
swamped by the rain which blew through the win- 
dow; the paper on the walls was torn by rats; tarry 
drops from the roof had fallen upon her unmade 
bed. 

The sight of this bed caused her a nightly dis- 
may. “Oh, if I could but make it in the morn- 
ing how different this room would look!” 

There would be no one in the sitting-room, but 
a tin would stand on the stove with one, two, or 
three pieces of meat in it. By this she knew 
whether the cubicles were full or if one or two 
were empty. Sometimes the coffee jug would rise 
too lightly from the floor as she lifted it, and in 
an angry voice she would call through the hut: 
“There is no coffee!” Silence, silence; till a voice, 
goaded by the silence, cried: “Ask Madeleine!” 

And Madeleine, the little maid, had long since 
gone over to laugh with the men in the garage. 

Then came the owners of the second and third 
piece of meat, stumbling across the bridge and up 
the corridor, lantern in hand. And Fanny, per- 
haps remembering a treasure left in her car, would 
rise, leave them to eat, feel her way to the garage, 
and back again to the safety of her room with a 


22 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

tin of sweetened eondensed milk under her arm. 
So low in comfort had she sunk it needed but this 
to make her happy. She had never known so 
sharp, so sweet a sense of luxury, as that with which 
she prepared the delicacy she had seized by her 
own cunning. It had not taken her long to learn 
the possibilities of the American Y. M. C. A., the 
branch in Bar, or any other which she might pass 
in her travels. 

Shameless she was as she leaned upon the counter 
in some distant village, cajoling, persuading, spin- 
ning some tale of want and necessity more pic- 
turesque, though no less actual, than her own. Se- 
cret, too, lest one of her companions, over-eager, 
should spoil her hunting ground. 

Sitting with her leather coat over her shoulders, 
happy in her solitude, she would drink the cup of 
Benger’s Food which she had made from the milk, 
and when it was finished, slide lower among the 
rugs, put out the lights, and listen to the rustle of 
the rats in the wall. 

“Mary Bell is getting married,” said a clear 
voice in the hut. 

“To the Wykely boy?” answered a second voice, 
and in a sudden need of sound the two voices talked 
on, while the six listeners upon their stretchers 
saw in the dark the life and happiness of Mary 


THE TRAVELER 


23 


Bell blossom before them, unknown and bright. 

The alarm clock went off with a scream at five. 

“Why, I ’ve hardly been asleep!” sighed Fanny, 
bewildered, and, getting up, she lit the lamp and 
made her coffee. Again there was not time to 
make the bed. Though fresh to the work she be- 
lieved that she had been there forever, yet the 
women with whom she shared her life had driven 
the roads of the Meuse district for months before 
she came to them, and their eyes were dim with 
peering into the dark nights, and they were tired 
past any sense of adventure, past any wish or 
power to better their condition. 

On and on and on rolled the days, and though 
one might add them together and make them seven, 
they never made Sunday. For there is no Sun- 
day in the French Army, there is no bell at which 
tools are laid aside, and not even the night is 
sacred. 

On and on rolled the weeks, and the weeks made 
months, till all November was gone, and all De- 
cember, and the New Year broke in fresh torrents 
of rain. 

Fanny made friends all day and lost them again 
forever as she passed on upon the roads. Some- 
times it was a sentry beside whom her “clients” 
left her for an hour while they inspected a bar- 


24 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


racks; sometimes it was an old woman who called 
from a doorway that she might come and warm 
her hands at the fire ; sometimes an American who 
helped her to change a tire. 

There were times, further up towards Verdun, 
where there were no old women, or young women, 
or villages, when she thought her friends were 
mad, deranged, eccentric in their loneliness. 

“My sister has a grand piano . . .” said one 
American to her — opening thus his conversation. 
But he mused upon it and spoke no further. 

“Yes?” she encouraged. “Yes?” 

He did not open his mind until she was leaving 
when he said simply to her: “I wish I was back 
home.” And between the two sentences all the 
pictures of his home were flowing in this thoughts. 

An old woman offered her shelter in a village 
while her clients were busy with the mayor. In 
the kitchen there was a tiny fire of twigs. 

American boys stamped in and out of the house, 
laughing, begging the daughter to sew on a button, 
sell them an egg, boys of nineteen and twenty, fair, 
tall, and good-looking. 

“We shall be glad when they are gone,” said the 
old woman, looking at their gay faces. “They 
are children,” she added, “with the faults of chil- 
dren.” 


THE TRAVELER 


25 


“They seemed well-mannered.” 

“They are beautiful boys,” said the peasant 
woman, “and good-mannered. But I ’m tired of 
them. Children are all very well, but to have your 
house full of them, your village, your family life! 
They play all day in the street, chasing the dogs, 
throwing balls. When our children come out of 
school there ’s no holding them, they must be off 
playing with the Americans. The war is over. 
Why don’t they take them home?” 

“Good-day, ma’am,” said a tall boy, coming up 
to Fanny. “You ’re sure cold. We brought you 
this.” And he offered her a cup of coffee he had 
fetched from his canteen. 

“Yes, they ’re good boys,” said the old woman, 
“but one doesn’t want other people’s children al- 
ways in one’s life.” 

“Is this a park?” Fanny asked a soldier in the 
next village, a village whose four streets were filled 
with rows of lorries, touring cars and ambulances. 
On every car the iron was frail with rust, the bon- 
nets of some were tom off, a wheel, two wheels, 
were missing, the side ripped open, disclosing the 
msting bones. 

“Pardon, madame?” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“We are left behind from the Fourth Army 


26 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


which has gone up to Germany. I have no tools 
or I would make one car out of four. But my men 
are discouraged and no one works. The war is 
over.” 

“Then this is a park?” 

“No, madame, it is a cemetery.” 

Months went by, and there came a night, as wet 
and sad as any other, when no premonitory star 
showed in the sky, and all that was bright in Fan- 
ny’s spirit toned itself to match the monotonous, 
shadowless pallor about her. 

She was upon her homeward journey. At the 
entrance to the hut she paused; for such a light was 
burning in the sitting-room that it traveled even 
the dark corridor, and wandered out upon the step. 
By it she could see the beaded moisture of the 
rain-mist upon the long hair escaped from her cap. 

A group of women stood within, their faces 
turned towards the door as she entered< 

“Fanny . . .” 

“What is it?” 

“We are going to Metz. We are ordered to 
Metz.” Stewart waved a letter. 

Was poverty and solitude at an end? They 
did not know it. In leaving the Meuse district did 
they leave, too, the boundless rain, the swollen 


THE TRAVELLER 


27 


rivers, the shining swamps, the mud which ebbed 
and flowed upon the land like a tide? Was hunger 
at an end, discomfort, and poor living? They had 
no inkling. 

Fanny, indifferent to any change, hoping for 
nothing better, turned first to the meat tin, for she 
was hungry. 

“Metz is a town,” she hazarded. 

“Of course!” 

“There will be things to eat there?” 

“No, very little. It was fed from Germany; 
now that it is suddenly fed from Paris the service 
is disorganized. One train crosses the devastated 
land in the day. I hear all this from the brigadier 
— who has, for that matter, never been there.” 

“Then we are going for certain?” 

“We are sent for. Yes, we are going. We are 
to be attached to the Headquarters Staff. Petain 
is there. It might even be gay.” 

Fanny laughed. “Gay!” 

“Why not?” 

“I was thinking of my one pair of silk stock- 
ings.” 

“You have silk stockings with you!” 

“Yes, I ... I came equipped for anything.” 

There came a morning, as wet and sad as any 


28 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


other when Stewart and Fanny, seated in the back 
of an ambulance, their feet overhanging the edge, 
watched the black hut dwindle upon the road, and 
wondered how any one had lived there so long. 


PART II 
LORRAINE 





CHAPTER II 


METZ 

W ITH its back to the woods and hills of Lux- 
embourg, with its face to the desolation of 
Northern France, the city of Metz stood at the entry 
of Lorraine like the gate to a new world. 

The traveler, arriving after long hours of jour- 
ney through the battlefields, might sigh with relief, 
gape with pleasure, then hurry away down be- 
flagged streets, beneath houses roped with green- 
leafed garlands, to eat divinely at Moitrier’s res- 
taurant, and join the dancing in the hall below. 

Not a night passed in Metz without the beat of 
music upon the frosty air. It burst into the nar- 
row streets from estaminets where the soldiers 
danced, from halls, from drawing-rooms of con- 
fiscated German houses where officers of the 
“Grand Quartier General” danced a triumph. Or 
it might be supposed to be a triumph by the Ger- 
mans who stayed in their homes after dark. They 
might suppose that the French officers danced for 
happiness, that they danced because they were 
31 


32 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


French, because they were victorious, because they 
were young, because they must. 

It was not, surely, the wild dancing of the host 
whose party drags a little, who callg for more 
champagne, more fiddles? 

In the center of the city of Metz sat the Marechal 
Petain, and kept his eye upon Lorraine. He was 
not a man who cared for gaiety, but should the 
Lorraines be insufficiently amused he gave them 
balls — insufficiently fed, he sent for flour and 
sugar; all the flour and sugar that France could 
spare; more, much more, than Paris had, and at 
his bidding the cake-shops flowered with eclairs, 
millefeuilles, brioches, choux a la creme, and 
cakes more marvelous with German names. 

France, poor and himgry, flung all she had into 
Alsace and Lorraine, that she might make her entry 
with the assuring dazzle of the benefactress. The 
Lorraines, like children, were fed with sugar while 
the meat shops were empty — were kept dancing in 
national costume that they might forget to ask for 
leather boots, to wonder where wool and silk were 
hiding. 

Fetes were organized, colors were paraded in the 
square, torchlight processions were started on Sat- 
urday nights, when the boys of the town went cry- 
ing and whooping behind the march of the flares. 


METZ 


33 


Artists were sent for from Paris, took train to 
Nancy, and were driven laboriously through hours 
of snow, over miles of shell-pitted roads, that they 
might sing and play in the theater or in the house 
of the Governor. To the dances, to the dinners, 
to the plays came the Lorraine women, wearing 
white cotton stockings to set off their thick ankles, 
and dancing in figures and set dances unknown to 
the officers from Paris. 

The Commandant Dormans, head of all motor 
transport under the Grand Quartier General, hav- 
ing prepared his German drawing-room as a hall- 
room, having danced all the evening with ladies 
from the surrounding hills, found himself fatigued 
and exasperated by the side of the head of Foreign 
Units attached to the Automobile Service. 

“I thought you had Englishwomen at Bar-le- 
Duc,” he said to the latter. 

“I have — eight.” 

“What are they doing at Bar-le-Duc? Get them 
here.” 

“Is there work, sir?” 

“Work! They shall work from dawn to sunset 
so long as they will dance all night! English- 
women do dance, don’t they?” 

“I have never been to England.” 

“Get them here. Send for them.” 


34 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


So through his whim it happened that six days 
later a little caravan of women crossed the old 
front lines beyond Pont-a-Mousson as dusk was 
falling, and as dark was falling entered the gates 
of Metz. 

They leaned from the ambulance excitedly as the 
lights of the streets flashed past them, saw windows 
piled with pale bricks of butter, bars of chocolate, 
tins of preserved strawberries, and jams. 

“Can you see the price on the butter?” 

“Twenty-four . . .” 

“What?” 

“I can’t see. Yes. . . . Twenty-four francs a 
pound.” 

“Good heavens!” 

“Ah, is it possible, eclairs?” 

“Eclairs!” 

And with exclamations of awe they saw the cake 
shops in the Serpenoise. 

German boys cried “American girls! American 
girls!” and threw paper balls in the back of the 
ambulance. 

“I heard, I heard . . .” 

“What is it?” 

“I heard German spoken.” 

“Did you think, then, they were all dead?” 

“No,” but Fanny felt like some old scholar who 


METZ 


35 


hears a dead language spoken in a vanished town. 

They drove on past the Cathedral into the open 
square of the Place du Theatre. Half the old 
French theater had been set aside as offices for the 
Automobile Service, and now the officers of the 
service, who had waited for them with curiosity, 
greeted them on the steps. 

“You must be tired, you must be hungry! 
Leave the ambulance where it is and come now, as 
you are, to dine with us!” 

In the uncertain light from the lamp on the the- 
ater steps the French tried to see the English faces, 
the women glanced at the men, and they walked to- 
gether to the oak-paneled Mess Room in a house 
on the other side of the empty square. A long 
table was spread with a white cloth, with silver, 
with flowers, as though they were expected. Sol- 
diers waited behind the chairs. 

“Vauclin! That foie gras you brought back 
from Paris yesterday . . . where is it, out with 
it? What, you only brought two jars! Arrelles, 
there ’s a jar left from yours.” 

“Mademoiselle, sit here by Captain Vauclin. 
He will amuse you. And you, mademoiselle, by 
me. You all talk French?” 

“And fancy, I never met an Englishwoman be- 
fore. Never! Your responsibility is terrible. 


36 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


How tired you must be! . . . What a journey! 
For to-night we have found you billets. We billet 
you on Germans. It is more comfortable; they 
do more for you. What, you have met no Ger- 
mans yet? They exist, yes, they exist.” 

“Arrelles, you are not talking French! You 
should talk English. You can’t? Nor I either 

“But these ladies talk French marvelously . . 

Some one in another house was playing an an- 
cient instrument. Its music stole across the open 
square. Soldiers passed singing in the street. 

A hundred miles ... a hundred years away 
. . . lay Bar-le-Duc, liquid in mud, soaked in 
eternal rain. “What was I?” thought Fanny in 
amazement. “To what had I come, in that black 
hut!” And she thought that she had run down to 
the bottom of living, lain on that hard floor where 
the poor lie, known what it was to live as the poor 
live, in a hole, without generosity, beauty, or pri- 
vacy — in a hole, dirty and cold, plain and coarse. 

She glanced at her neighbor with wonder and 
appreciation, delight and envy. There was a light, 
clean scent upon his hair. She saw his hands, his 
nails. And her own. 

A young Jew opposite her had his hair curled, 
and a faint powdery bloom about his face. 


METZ 


37 


(“But never mind! That is civilization. There 
are people who turn from that and cry for nature, 
but I, since I ’ve lived as a dog, when I see artifice, 
feel gay!”) 

“You don’t know with what interest you have 
been awaited.” 

“We?” 

“Ah, yes! And were you pleased to come?” 

“We did not know to what we were coming!” 

“And now? . . .” 

She looked round the table peacefully, listened 
to the light voices talking a French she had never 
heard at Bar. 

“And now? < . 

“I could not make you understand how different” 
. . . (No, she would not tell him how they had 
lived at Bar. She was ashamed.) But as she was 
answering the servant gave him a message and he 
was called away. When he returned he said: 
“The Commandant Dormant is ghowing himself 
very anxious.” 

The Jew laughed and said: “He wants to see 
these ladies this evening?” 

“No, he spares them that, knowing of their jour- 
ney. He sends a message by the Capitaine Chatel 
to tell us that the D. S. A. give a dance to-morrow 
night. The personal invitation will be sent by 


38 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

messenger in the morning. You dance, mademoi- 
selle?” 

“There is a dance, and we are invited? Yes, 
yes, I dance! You asked if I was happy now that 
I am here. To us this might be Babylon, after the 
desert!” 

“Babylon, the wicked city?” 

“The gay, the light, beribboned city! What is 
the ‘D. S. A.’?” 

“A mighty power which governs our actions. 
We are but the C. R. A. . . . the regulating con- 
trol. But they are the Direction. ‘Direction Serv- 
ice Automobile.’ They draw up all traffic rules 
for the Army, dispose of cars, withdraw them. On 
them you depend and I depend. But they are 
well-disposed towards you.” 

“And the Commandant Dormans is the head?” 

“The head of all transport. He is a great man. 
Very peculiar.” 

“The Capitaine Chatel?” 

“His aide, his right hand, the nearest to his 
ear.” 

Dinner over, the young Jew, Reherrey, having 
sent for two cars from the garage, drove the tired 
Englishwomen to their billets. As the cars passed 
down the cobbled streets and over a great bridge, 
Fanny saw water gleam in the gulf below. 


METZ 


39 


“What river is that?” 

“The Moselle.” 

A sentry challenged them on the far side of the 
bridge. “Now we are in the outer town, the Ger- 
man quarter.” 

In a narrow street whose houses overhung the 
river each of the section was put down at a dif- 
ferent doorway, given a paper upon which was 
inscribed her right to billets, and introduced in 
Reherrey’s rapid German to her landlady. 

Fanny, in her turn, following the young man 
through a dark doorway, found herself in a stone 
alley and climbed the windings of a stairway. 
A girl of twelve or thirteen received her on the 
upper landing, saying “Guten Abend,” and look- 
ing at her with wonder. 

“Where is your mother?” said Reherrey. 

“She is out with my eldest sister.” 

“What is your name?” 

“Elsa.” 

“Then, Elsa, look after this lady. Take her to 
her room, the room I saw your mother about, give 
her hot water, and bring her breakfast in the morn- 
ing. Take great care of her.” 

“Ja wohl, mein herr.” 

Reherrey turned away and ran down the stairs. 
Elsa showed Fanny to a room prepared for her. 


40 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“You are English?” said Elsa, and could not 
take her eyes off her. 

“Yes, I am English. And are you German?” 
(Question so impossible. So indiscreet in Eng- 
land . . .) 

“I am real German, from Coblentz. How did 
you come here, fraulein?” 

“In a car.” 

“But from England! Is there not water?” 

“I crossed the water in a ship, and afterwards 
I came here in a car.” 

“You have a motor car? But every one is rich 
in England.” 

“Oh, not very * 4 .” 

“Yes, every one. Mother says so.” 

The girl went away, then brought her a jug of 
hot water. 

“I hope,” said Fanny, venturing upon a sea of 
forgotten German, “I hope I have n’t turned you or 
your sister out of this room.” 

“This is the strangers’ room,” said Elsa. “I 
thank you.” 

When she had gone, Fanny looked round the 
room. It was too German to be true. The walls 
were dark red, the curtains dark red, the carpet, 
eiderdown, rep cover of the armchair, plush on 
the photograph frames, embroidered mats upon the 


METZ 


41 


washstand, tiles upon the stove, everything a deep, 
dark red. Four mugs stood upon the mantelpiece, 
and . . . she rubbed her eyes . . . was it pos- 
sible that one had an iron cross upon its porcelain, 
one the legend “Gott mit uns,” the third the head 
of the Kaiser, the fourth the head of the Kaiserin? 
“That is too much! The people I shall write to 
won’t believe it!” 

Her bed was overhung by a large branch of 
stag’s horn fixed upon the wall. 

She felt the bed, counted the blankets, found 
matches on the mantelpiece, a candle in the candle- 
stick, room in the stove to boil a kettle or a sauce- 
pan. Hot water steamed from her jug, a hot 
brick had been placed to warm her bed, a plate of 
rye bread cut in slices and covered with a cloth 
was upon the table. 

Foreign to her own, the eyes which had rejoiced 
in this room . . . yet the smile of German com- 
fort was upon it. 

She lay down beneath the branching antlers, and 
smiled before she went to sleep: “One pair of silk 
stockings ... to dance in Babylon . . .” 

In the morning a thin woman dressed in black 
brought her breakfast — ^jam, rye bread, coffee and 
sugar. 


42 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Guten morgen,” said the woman, and looked 
at her curiously. But Fanny could n’t remember 
which language she ought to talk, and fumbled in 
her head so long that the woman went away. 

She dressed and went out, meeting Stewart by 
her doorway. Together they crossed the bridge, 
the theater square, and went towards the Cathedral 
with solemn, eager faces. They did not look up at 
the Cathedral, at the statue of old David upon 
which the Kaiser had had his own head carved, and 
upon whose crossed hands the people had now 
hung chains fastened with a padlock — they did not 
glance at the Hotel de Ville in the square beyond, 
but, avoiding the tram which emerged from the 
narrow Serpenoise like a monster that had too 
long been oppressed, they hurried on up the street 
with a subdued and hungry gaiety. 

There was a Need to be satisfied before anything 
could be seen, done, or said. A Need four years 
old, now knocking at the doors of heaven, howling 
to be satisfied. 

Before the windows of a shop they paused, but 
Stewart, standing back and looking up the street, 
said: “There is a better further on!” and when they 
had gone on a few paces Fanny whispered, hurry- 
ing, “A better still beyond!” At the third shop. 


METZ 


43 


the Need, imperative, royal, would wait no longer, 
and drove them within. 

‘‘How many?” asked the saleswoman at the end 
of ten minutes. 

“Seven eclairs and a cream bun,” said Stewart. 

“Just nine eclairs,^^ said Fanny. 

“Seventeen francs,” said the woman without 
moving an eyelash. 

This frenzy cooled, their pockets lighter, they 
walked for pleasure in the town. The narrow 
streets streamed with people — French soldiers and 
officers, Lorraine women in the costumes of^ pag- 
eantry, and German children who cried shrilly: 
“Amerikanerin, Amerikanerin!” 

An English major passed them. They recog- 
nized his flawless boots before they realized his 
nationality. And, following his, the worst boots 
in the world — worn by a couple of sauntering Ital- 
ian officers, gay in olive and silver uniform. Ger- 
man men in black slouch hats hurried along the 
streets. 

It had been arranged that they could eat their 
meals in a room overlooking the canal, at the foot 
of the Cathedral — and there at eleven o’clock they 
went, to be a little dashed in spirit by the reappear- 
ance of the Bar-le-Duc crockery. 


44 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

The same yellow dish carried what seemed the 
same rationed jam; the square blocks of meat 
might have been cooked in the Bar cook-hut, and 
brought with them over the desert; two heavy 
loaves stood as usual on the wooden table. The 
French Army ration was the same in every town. 

“Mesdames,” said the orderly assigned to them, 
“there are two sous-officers without who wish to 
speak with you.” 

“Let them come in.” 

Two blue figures appeared in the doorway and 
saluted. The first brought a card of invitation 
from the Commandant Dormans. The second was 
the brigadier from the garage with a list of the cars 
assigned to the drivers. 

“Perhaps these ladies would come down and 
try their cars after lunch?” he suggested, and lunch 
being over they walked with him through the wind- 
ing streets. At the gates of a great yard he paused 
and a sentry swung them open. Behind the gates 
lay a sandy plain as large as a parade ground, 
which, except for gulleys or gangways crossing it 
at intervals, was packed from end to end with row 
after row of cars ; cars in the worst possible condi- 
tion, tom, twisted, wheelless, cars with less dra- 
matic and yet fatal injuries; some squatting back- 
wards upon their haunches, some inclined for- 


METZ 


45 


wards upon their knees — one, lately fished up from 
a river, had slabs and crusts of ice still upon its 
seats — one, the last dragged in at the tail of a 
breakdown lorry, hung, fore-wheels in the air, 
helpless upon a crane. Here, in the yard, was 
nothing but broken iron and moldering carriage 
work — the cemetery of the Transport of the G. Q. G. 

Lining all one side of the yard ran a shed, closed 
and warmed and lighted, where living cars slept in 
long rows, mudguard to mudguard, and bright 
lamps facing outward. 

As the Englishwomen walked in a soft rustle 
could be heard up and down the lighted shed, for 
each half -hidden driver working by his car turned 
and shot a glance, expectant and mocking, towards 
the door. v 

“Ben quoi, i’parait qu’c’est vrai! Tu vois!” 

“Qu’est-ce qu’il dit, c’ui-la?” 

“C’est les Anglaises, pardi!” 

“Tu comprends, j’suis centre tout ca. I’y a des 
fois ou les femmes c’est bien. Mais ici . . .” 

“Tu grognes? On va r’devenir homme, c’est 
tres bien!” 

“C’est idiot! Qu’est-ce qu’elles vont faire ici!” 

“On dirait — c’est du militarisme francais!” 

“Le militarisme francais j’m’en f ! Tu 

verra, cela va faire encore du travail pour nous.” 


46 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Attends un pen!” . . . And murmurs filled 
the shed — glances threaded the shadows, chilling 
the spirit of the foreign women adventuring upon 
the threshold. 

“Four Rochets,” said the brigadier, consulting 
his paper, “two Delages, two Fiats . . . Made- 
moiselle, here is yours, and yours. The Lieu- 
tenant Denis will be here in a moment. He fears 
the Rochets will be too heavy for you, but we must 
see. 

The lieutenant who had been at dinner the night 
before entered the shed, greeted them, and turned 
to Stewart. “That car is too heavy for your 
strength, mademoiselle. It is not a car for a 
lady.” 

“I like the make,” she said stiffly, conscious of 
the ears which listened in the shed. 

“See if you can start her now, mademoiselle,” 
said the brigadier, arranging the levers. 

There was a still hush in the shed as Stewart 
bent to the handle. Fanny, standing by the Rochet 
which had been assigned to her, felt her heart 
thumping. 

(“Tu va voir!” whispered the little soldiers 
watching brightly from behind the cars. “Attends, 
attends un peu! Pour les mettre en marche, les 
tacots, c’est autre chose!”) 


METZ 


47 


Stewart, seizing the handle, could not turn it. 
In the false night of the shed the lights shone on 
polished lamps, on glass and brass, on French 
eyes which said: ‘‘That’s what comes of it!” — 
which were ready to say — “March out again, Eng- 
lishwomen, ridiculous and eager and defeated!” 

Fanny, looking neither to right nor left, prayed 
under her breath — “Stewart, Stewart, we can never 
live in this shed if you can’t start her. And if you 
can’t, nobody else can . . 

There was a spurt of life from the engine as it 
backfired, and Stewart sprang away, holding her 
wrist with her other hand. The lieutenant, the 
brigadier, and a driver from a car near by crowded 
round her with exclamations. 

“You advanced the spark too much,” said the 
driver to the brigadier. “Te/iez! I will retard it.” 

“She sha’n’t touch the car again,” said the lieu- 
tenant. “It is too heavy.” 

“Leave the controls alone,” said Stewart, scowl- 
ing at the driver. “If she has the life to backfire, 
she has the life to start. Give me room . . 

She caught the handle with her injured hand, and 
with a gasp, swung the Rochet into throbbing life. 

There was a murmur of voices down the shed, 
and each man with a slight movement returned to 
the work he had been doing; the polishers pol- 


48 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


ished, the cleaners swept, and a little chink of 
metal on metal filled the garage. The women were 
accepted. 

The day had vanished. Cars, yard and garage 
sank out of sight. Out in the streets the lamps 
woke one by one, and from the town came shouts 
and the stamp of feet marching. It was Saturday 
night and a torchlight procession of soldiers and 
civilians wound down the street. The band passed 
first, and after it men carried fire-glares fastened 
upon sticks. 

The garage gates turned to rods and bars of gold 
till the light left them, and the glare upon the house- 
fronts opposite traveled slowly down the street. 

Fanny slipped out of the yard and crept along 
behind the flares like a shadow on the pavement. 
At the street corner she passed out on to the bridge 
over the Moselle, and leaned against the stonework 
to watch the plumes of fire as they glittered up 
the riverside upon the tow-path. The lights van- 
ished, leaving the darkness so intense that she 
could only feel her way over the bridge by holding 
to the stonework with her hand. A sentry chal- 
lenged her and when she had passed him she had 
arrived at the door of her German lodging. 

Climbing the stairs a slow breeze of excitement 
filled out the sails of her spirit. “My silk stock- 


METZ 


49 


ings . . . my gold links, and my benzene bottle!” 
she murmured happily. Now that of all her life 
she had the slenderest toilette to make — three hours 
was the time she had set aside for it! 


CHAPTER III 


JULIEN 

E arth has her usual delights — which can be 
met with six days out of the seven. But here 
and there upon gray earth there exist, like the fly- 
ing of sunlight, celestial pleasures also — and one 
of these is the heaven of success. When, puffed- 
up and glorious, the successful creature struts like 
a peacock, gilded in a passing radiance. And in a 
radiance, in a magic illumination, the newcomers 
danced in the drawing-room of the Commandant 
Dormans, and tasted that which cannot be found 
when sought, nor held when tasted. 

Old tapestries of tropical foliage hung around 
the walls, dusk upon one wall, dawn upon another. 
Trees climbed from floor to ceiling laden with lime- 
colored flowers, with birds instead of fruits upon 
the branches. 

When at a touch the yellow dust flew out under 
the lamplight it seemed to the mazy eye of the 
dancer that the trees sent up a mist of pollen and 
song. 

In this happy summer, Fanny, turning her vain 

50 


JULIEN 


51 


ear to spoken flattery, her vain eye to mute, danced 
like a golden gnat in fine weather. 

The Commandant Dormans spoke to her. If he 
was not young he had a quick voice that was not 
old. He said: “We welcome you. We have been 
waiting for you. We are glad you have come.” 

Faces surrounded her which to her fresh eyes 
were not easy to read. Names which she had 
heard last night became young and old men to her 
— skins red and pale and dark -white — eyes blue 
and olive and black — gay, audacious and mocking 
features. She was dazzled, she did not hurry to 
understand. One could not choose, one floated 
free of preference, all men were strangers. 

“One day I shall know what they are, how they 
live, how they think.” But she did not want that 
day to come. 

The Commandant Dormans saids: “You do not 
regret Bar-le-Duc?” 

“No, no, no.” 

“I hear you are all voracious for work. I hear 
that if you do not drive from morning to night we 
cannot hope to keep you with us!” 

Denis said to her: “Be careful of him! He be- 
lieves there is no end to the human strength.” 

She replied joyously: “There is no end to our 
strength!” 


52 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


When she had eyes to see, to watch, to choose, 
she found that there was in the room a man who 
was graceful and young, whose eyes were a 
peculiar shape, who laughed all the time gently as 
he danced. He never looked at her, never came 
near her. This young man was indifferent to her, 
he was indifferent to her . . * Soon he became a 
trouble and a pleasure to her. With whom was he 
dancing now . . . and now? Who was it that 
amused him? His eyes and his hair were bright 
. . . but there were many around her whose eyes 
and hair were as bright. Before she had seen that 
young man laugh her pleasure had been more com- 
plete. 

While she was talking to Denis a voice said to 
her: “Won’t you dance with me?” 

Looking up she saw who it was. His mouth 
smiled, his eyes were clever and gay. 

The moment she danced with him she began to 
grow proud, she began to find herself. Some one 
whispered to her: “The section must leave at such 
and such an hour . . .” 

She thought in a flash: “For me the section is 
dissolved ... I am I, and the others are the 
others!” 

The evening wore on. The musicians flagged 


JULIEN 


53 


and took up their courage again. It was late when 
Stewart, touching Fanny’s arm, showed her that 
they were almost the only women in the room. 

“Where are the others?” 

“In the hall, putting on their coats. We are all 
going.” 

“Are n’t they in a hurry?” 

“They have had orders, which were brought up 
just now, for runs early to-morrow morning. But 
you and I have nothing, and Denis has asked us 
... if you are quick you can slip away ... to 
have supper with him at Moitriers.” 

“Well?” 

“We can. The others go home In two cars 
which have been sent for us. No one will know 
that we are not in the other car. I ’m so hungry.” 

“So am I, starving. Very well.” 

They joined the others, put on their coats, 
hunted ostentatiously for their gloves, then slipped 
ahead down the dark stairway into the square be- 
low. Denis joined them. 

“Splendid. I have my car round that corner. 
It will only be a matter of half an hour, but if you 
are both as hungry as I you will welcome it. 
Everything was finished upstairs, every crumb and 
cake. We must get a fourth. Who shall I get?” 


54 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Any one whom you would like to bring,” said 
Stewart. “I don’t think I have mastered the names 
yet. I really don’t mind.” 

“And you, mademoiselle?” 

“Nor I either,” said Fanny, sniffing at the frosty 
air, at the fresh night. “Whom you like!” 

“Then I won’t be a moment. I’ll bring whom 
I can.” 

“Monsieur!” ... as he reached the comer. 
He turned back. 

“There is an artillery captain ... in a black 
uniform with silver . . .” 

“An artillery captain . . .” he paused enquir- 
ingly. 

“In black and silver. There was no other in 
the room.” 

“Oh, yes, there were two in black and 
silver!” 

“Tall, with . . .” 

“Ah, tall! The other is very short . . . The 
tall one is the Commandant’s aide. Captain Chatel. 
He may not be able . . . But I will see!” He dis- 
appeared again. 

When he returned he had the young man beside 
him. 

“One moment,” said Chatel, as they walked to- 


JULIEN 55 

wards the car; ‘Vho asked for me, the girl with the 
fair hair, or with the dark?” 

‘‘With the fair.” 

Moitriers was closed when they reached it, and 
they drove on to the only other place where food 
could be bought past the hour of midnight — the 
station buffet. 

Pushing past the barriers at the entrance to the 
station they entered a long corridor filled with 
heavy civilian life. Men and women, lay, slept 
and snored upon the stone ledges which lined the 
side of the tunnel, their bags and packets stacked 
around them. Small children lay asleep like cut 
corn, heads hanging and nodding in all directions, 
or propped against each other in such an intricate 
combination that if one should move the whole 
sheaf of tired heads slipped lower to the floor. 

Further on, swing doors of glass led to a waiting- 
room and here the sleeping men and women were 
so packed upon the ground and around the little 
tables that it was difficult to walk between them. 
Men sat in groups of nine or ten around a table 
meant for four, each with his head sunk down 
between his hands upon the marble surface. On 
one table a small child wrapped in shawls lay 
among the circle of heads, curled like a snail, its 


56 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


toe in its father’s ear. At each end of the room 
stood soldiers with fixed bayonets. 

Denis paused at the entrance. “Walk round 
here,” he said, “there is a gangway for the sen- 
try.” 

“If we talk too loud,” said Fanny, “we shall 
wake them.” 

“They must soon wake in any case. It must he 
near the time for the train. You know who they 
are?” 

“Who?” 

“Germans. Expelled from Metz. They leave 
in batches for Germany every night — ^by a train 
that comes in and goes out at some horrible hour.” 

Passing through more glass doors they came to 
an inner room where, behind a buffet, a lady in 
black silk served them with beer and slices of raw 
ham and bread. 

The four sat down for a moment at a little 
table — Denis talking of the system by which the 
outgoing Germans were nightly weeded from those 
who had permission to remain behind in Metz. 
Julien Chatel joined in the conversation. He 
spoke with the others, but he glanced at Fanny. 
For the briefest of seconds he thought as he looked 
at her face that he saw a new interest smile upon it. 
He did not know that his own face wore the same 


JULIEN 


57 


look. His look said as he looked at her: “You, 
you, you!” At one moment she thought: “Am I 
pretty?” At the next she was content only to 
breathe, and thought no more of herself. She took 
in now his eyes which seldom rested on her, now a 
movement of his lips which made her feel both 
happy and miserable, and suddenly she learned how 
often his finger traced some letter upon his cheek. 

These things were important. They were like 
the opening sentences of a great play to which one 
must listen, absorbed, for fear of misunderstand- 
ing all the story. 

It was not long before they rose, threaded their 
way back between the sleeping Germans, regained 
the car, and drove down the silent streets towards 
the Cathedral. 

“Have you seen it?” said Julien in a low voice, 
addressing her directly. 

“The Cathedral?” 

“Yes. I want to show it to you. Will you 
meet me there to-morrow at three?” 

(The others talked and smiled and knew noth- 
ing. Whoever has a secret is stronger than they 
who know nothing. Fanny thought: “My com- 
panions, to be as you are is not to exist! What- 
ever you feel, you are feeling nothing . . .”) 

“Will you?” 


58 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Yes,” she answered, and joined her hands 
tightly together, for this was where the play really 
began. 

The sun shone gaily. Here was no mud, no un- 
happiness, here were no puzzled women, and touch- 
ing mayors of ruined villages, but instead lay 
goblin houses, pointed churches like sugar cake, 
the old French theater with its stone garlands glit- 
tering in the sun; sun everywhere, streaming over 
the Place d \ Theatre, over women shaking colored 
rags from Lie windows, women washing linen by 
the river; everything that had been wet was drying, 
everything that had savored of tears and age and 
sadness was burning up under the sun, and what 
moisture remained was brighter than jewels. 

“Suppo^jc he never came!” 

“Why, then, be ready for that. Very likely he 
would n’t come. Very likely he would think in 
daylight — ‘She is not a woman, but an English 
Amazon . . .’ ” Fanny glanced down at her 
clothes regretfully. She was ill-equipped for an 
assignation. 

“At least I might have better gloves,” she 
thought, and walked into a small shop which ad- 
vertised men’s clothes in German across the win- 
dow. She bought yellow wash-leather gloves at 


JULIEN 


59 


twenty-eight francs a pair, and would have paid 
a hundred had the salesman insisted. 

And now with yellow gloves, silk stockings, shin- 
ing shoes and a heart as light and fluttering as a 
leaf upon a wind she walked towards the Cathedral. 

“He won’t come. He won’t be there . . .” 
She pushed at the east door. 

He was under a Madonna, his black and silver 
hat in his hand, his eyes critical and pleased as he 
walked to meet her. They sat down together on a 
seat, without speaking. Then, each longing for 
the other to speak — “You have come . . .” he 
said first. (His face was oval and his hair was 
shining.) 

“Yes,” she nodded, and noticed a peculiar glory 
in the Cathedral. The dark cave shone as white 
flesh and youth can shine through the veils of a 
mourner. 

They no longer lived their own Separate lives; 
they had come together at each other’s call. 

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” 

“Why, why did you think that?” 

Little questions and little answers fell in a sud- 
den rain from their lips. Yet while Fanny spoke 
he did not seem to know what she said, and an- 
swered at random, or sometimes he did not answer 
at all, but smiled. 


60 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Afraid of the fragile avowal of silence, evading 
it, she found little words to follow one another. 
But he answered less and less, and smiled at her, 
till his face was full of this smile. So then she 
said: “We’ll go out and walk by the river,” and 
he rose at once and followed her among the forest 
of wooden chairs. They forgot that he was to have 
shown her the Cathedral. In all its length she 
never saw one statue except the first Madonna, not 
one stone face but his young face with the cold 
light upon it, his hands as white as stones, as long 
and fine as any of the carved fingers which prayed 
around them. 

They walked together down the winding path 
below the bridge to the very edge of the Moselle, 
which lay in light winter sunlight, its banks buried 
in shrubberies of green. 

Mont St. Quentin, conical, covered with waving 
trees, shone like a hill in summer, and beyond it 
the indigo forest of every Lorraine horizon floated 
indefinitely like a cloud. 

A young doctor lounged beside them, putty- 
colored under his red plush cap. 

“Why are all doctors plain in France?” she said, 
and laughed. 

“Hush!” He wound his hand round and round 
like the player of a barrel-organ. “I have to stop 


JULIEN 61 

you when you say silly things like a phonograph, 
at so much a meter.” 

So he believed he might tease her. . . . De- 
lighted, she stopped by the bank of the river and 
stared into the water. The sun ran over her shoul- 
ders and warmed her hands. The still shine of 
the river held both their eyes as movement in a 
train holds the mind. 

‘T am enjoying my walk,” he said. He did not 
mean it like that, or as a compliment to her. 
When it was said he thought it sounded banal, and 
was sorry. “What a pity!” 

But she was not critical because she was look- 
ing for living happiness, and every moment she 
was more and more convinced that she would get 
it. But when he asked her her name and she re- 
peated it, it sounded so much like an avowal that 
they both turned together down the tow-path with 
a quick movement and spoke of other things, for 
they were old enough to be afraid that the vague 
happiness that fluttered before them down the path 
would not be so beautiful when it was caught. 
And at this fear she said distinctly to herself: “In 
love!” and wondered that she had not said it before. 

Coming back to him with her words, she then 
began to wound and to delay him. “You must n’t 
be late for your office . . .” 


62 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“When shall I see you again?” 

They dropped into a long silence. She sum- 
moned her coquetry that she called pride. The 
blue, blue forest at the edge of her sight waved a 
little like a ship, paling into the sky, the watery 
hill-country rolled towards it in mysterious kilo- 
meters. 

“It is beautiful,” she said clumsily, avoiding his 
question, ignoring it. “Yet when I go there it is 
always more beautiful on the next hill.” 

“I must hurry,” he said at once, “I shall be late 
at my office.” 

“Where is your office?” 

He looked round vaguely. “There in that group 
of pines.” They walked towards it, they were 
almost at the door, but he would not repeat his 
question. Would he not at the last moment? No. 
Had it not then been clear that tlie living happiness 
was at her lips? No. Could he let her go, could 
it have been a failure? He was holding out one of 
the stone hands. He was going. 

She looked up and the sun was streaming in his 
eyes, blinding him, and without seeing her he 
stared into the darkness that was her face. “I 
have so enjoyed my walk,” he said. “Thank you 
for coming.” 


JULIEN 


63 


All her face said “Oh!” in a hurt, frightened 
stare, but the sun only came round the edges of her 
hair and cap and left the panic in a shifting dark- 
ness. He was gone. 

She went back to her street. Reaching the big, 
populous house she followed the corridor that led 
from the stone courtyard, climbed to the first floor 
and opened the door of her own room. A bitter 
disillusion ran through her. The close-packed 
furniture seemed to say indifferently, “There ’s not 
much room for you!” and she knew quite well as 
she sat down on the bed that it was not her room 
at all, but had been as public to the birds of passage 
as the branch of a tree to the birds of the air. 

“I did so little. I did so little. It was such a 
little mistake!” Self-pity flooded her. 

“And why did he ask me to come to the Cathe- 
dral if such a little thing, such a little thing . . .” 
Indignation rose. 

“Things don’t crumble like that, don’t vanish 
like that!” She stared, astonished, at the scenes 
she had left behind her, the shining of the dark 
Cathedral, the ripple on the Moselle. “But they 
do, they do, they do . . .” 

Down in the street her own name caught her 
ear, and she went to the window. 


64 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Are you there, are you there?” cried the voice. 

Hanging waist-deep out of the window she re- 
ceived her orders for the next day. 

“I came down to tell you now,” said the girl be- 
low on the pavement. “I thought you might have 
things to do to the car. You must be at the Hotel 
Royal, near the station, at half -past six to-morrow 
morning.” 

“Have you any idea whom I ’m to take? Or 
where?” 

“I don’t know where, but the man is a Russian 
colonel.” 

She drew her head back through the window, and 
the gay tumble of the street gave way to the im- 
personal, heavy room. Cramming her oil-stained 
overall into her haversack, she put on her leather 
coat and went up to the garage. 

The sun had disappeared. A cold wind struck 
the silk-clad ankles. 


CHAPTER IV 


VERDUN 

“/^OME in,” she said in English, lifting her head 
and all her mind and spirit out of the pit of 
the pillow. 

Feet came further into the room and a shivering 
child held a candle in her face. ^^Halb sechs, 
fraulein,” it said. But the fraulein continued to 
stare at him. He thought she was not yet awake — 
he could not tell that she was counting countries in ^ 
her head to find which one she was in — or that she 
was inclining towards the theory that she was at 
school in Germany. He was very cold in his shirt 
and little trousers, and he pulled at her sheets. 
‘Traulein!” he said again with chattering teeth, 
and when she nodded more collectedly the little 
ghost slipped out relieved by the door. ‘^Russian 
colonel ... I must get up. Fancy making that 
boy call me! Why could n’t some one older . . . 

I must get up.” 

He had left the electric light burning in her 
room, but out in the corridor all was as black and 
65 


66 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


hushed as she had left it the night before when she 
had gone to bed. Behind the kitchen door there 
was a noise of water running in the sink. She 
opened the door, and there was the wretched child 
again, still in his shirt, rinsing out her coffee-pot 
by the light of one candle. Well, since he was 
doing it . . . Poor child! But she must have her 
coffee. By the time she was dressed he tapped 
again and brought in the tray with coffee, bread 
and jam on it. Setting it down, he looked it over 
with an anxious face. “Zucker,” he said, and dis- 
appeared to fetch it. She filled her thermos bottle 
with the rest of the coffee which she could not 
finish, and put two of the slices of gray bread into 
the haversack, then crept downstairs and out into 
the black street where the gas lamps still burnt and 
the night sentry still paced up and down in the 
spectral gloom. Over the river hung a woolly fog, 
imprisoning the water; but as she crossed the 
bridge she noticed where its solidity was incom- 
plete and tom, and into the dark water which lay 
at the bottom of such crevasses a lamp upon the 
bridge struck its arrowed likeness. It was a good 
seven minutes’ walk to the garage, and she tried 
to get warm by running, but the ice crackling in the 
gutters and between the cobble stones defied her, 
and her hands ached with cold though she put them 


VERDUN 


67 


in turn right through her blouse against her heart 
to warm them as she ran. Fetching her car she 
drove to the Hotel Royal, and settled down to wait. 

A porter came out and swept the steps of the 
hotel, and a puff of his dust caught her in the face. 
He laid a fiber mat on each stone step, and clipped 
them with little clips of iron. 

“Are you for us?” asked a sous-lieutenant, look- 
ing first up and down the empty street and then at 
the car. He had blue eyes and a long, sad mus- 
tache that swept down the lower half of his face 
and even below his chin, making him look older 
than he should. 

“I am for a Russian colonel,” she said, liking 
his mild face. 

“That’s right. Yes, a Russian colonel. Colo- 
nel Dellahousse. But can you manage by your- 
self? Can you really? I will tell him . . .” 

He disappeared up the steps and through the 
swing door of the hotel. A moment later he was 
out again. 

“He will come to you himself, he will see you. 
But we want to go to Verdun! Could you drive so 
far? You could? Yes, yes, perhaps. Yet here 
he comes ...” 

In dark civilian clothes the Russian came down 
the hotel steps. He was tall, serious, upright, rich. 


68 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


His face beneath his wide, black hat was grave and 
well cared for. The somber glitter of his eye was 
grave, his small dark beard shone in the well-con- 
trolled prime of its growth. From the narrow line 
of white collar to the narrower thread of French 
watch-chain — from the lean, long feet to the lean, 
white hands she took him in, and braced herself, 
adjusted herself, to meet his stately gravity. If 
there was something of the Mephistopheles in fancy 
dress about bim, it was corrected by his considerate 
expression. 

“Have you had breakfast?” he began, speaking 
French with a softly nasal accent. 

“How kind of you to think of it! Yes, thank 
you, monsieur.” 

“I have to go to Verdun,” he put it to her. “I 
have business there.” It was as though he ex- 
pected that she would let him off without difficult 
explanations, would exclaim: “There is some mis- 
take! Some other car, some other driver is in- 
tended for your work!” 

But she remained silent except for a faint smile 
of acknowledgment, and with a sigh he summoned 
the lieutenant and went back into the hotel. In a 
few minutes the Frenchman came out again. 
“Monsieur Dellahousse would like to know if you 
know the way?” he inquired. 


VERDUN 


69 


" “He does n’t want to take me? Is n’t that it?” 
asked Fanny, smiling but anxious. 

“He is a little doubtful,” admitted the lieutenant. 
“You must excuse . . .” 

“Perhaps I appear flippant to him. But I am 
grave, too, grave as he, and I long to go, and the 
car and I, we are trustworthy. I do, indeed, know 
the way to Verdun.” 

He went in again, and for answer the porter 
brought out the bags, and Colonel Dellahousse fol- 
lowed, carrying a sealed black bag with care under 
his arm. She was sure he had said to the French- 
man: “But what sort of a woman is she? One 
does not want to have difficulties.” And as sure, 
too, that the other had answered : “I know the Eng- 
lish. They let their women do this sort of thing. 
I think it will be all right.” 

She no longer felt defiant towards the spoken 
and unspoken criticism she met everywhere : “What 
kind of women can these'be whose men allow them 
to drive alone with us for hours, and sometimes 
days?” but had begun to apologize for it even to 
herself, while it sometimes caused her bewilder- 
ment. 

She drove them back through the waking town 
and out by the Verdun gates, and soon up on to the 
steep heights above the town among frozen fields 


70 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


and grasslands white with frost. The big stone 
tombs of 1870 stuck out of a light ground fog like 
sails upon a gray sea, and it was not long, at 
Jeandelize, before the 1914 graves began, small 
isolated wooden crosses. They touched the brink 
of the battlefields; a rain of dead gunfire began 
along the sides of the road, shell-holes with hairy 
edges of dried thistles and, at the bottom of each, 
green moss stiffened with ice. The road grew 
wilder and wilder and took on the air of a burnt- 
out moor, mile after mile of gray, stricken grass, 
old iron, and large upturned stones. Wherever a 
pair of blasted trees was left at the road’s side a no- 
tice hung in mid-air, on wires slung from tree to 
tree across the road. 

“Halt — Autos!” shouted the square, black, Ger- 
man orders from the boards which swung and 
creaked in the wind. 

^ “Nach Verdun,” said the monster black arrows 
painted on trees and stone, pointing, thick, black 
and steady, till it seemed that the ghost of the Ger- 
man endeavor still flung itself along the road. 
“Nach Verdun! Nach Verdun!” without a pause, 
with head down. “Nach Verdun,” so that no one 
might go wrong, go aside, go astray, turn back 
against the order of the arrow. Not an arrow any- 
where answered “Nach Metz.” 


VERDUN 


71 


For miles and miles nothing living wa§ to be 
seen, neither animal, nor motor, nor living man; 
only the stray fires of the Chinese fluttered here 
and there like blue and red marsh fires a mile or 
so back from the main road. Once as she flew 
along she shied like a horse and twisted the wheel 
as a wild screaming and twittering rose at the side 
of the car, and glancing back she saw three figures 
wriggle and laugh in mockery and astonishment. 
They had risen round the embers of a dead fire, 
and stood swaying on their feet and showing white 
teeth in orange faces. One had the long hair of a 
woman flapping about his ears. 

They reached Etain, and turned the sharp comer 
in the street lined with hollow houses, passed under 
a tunnel of thick camouflage, leafy as an arbor, 
moldy as the rags upon a corpse, and came on the 
first pill-boxes of the Hindenburg line. 

Another twelve miles and the twin towers of Ver- 
dun appeared over the brow of a hill. 

“I thought it but dust!” exclaimed the Russian. 
“I thought it a ruin; it is a town!” 

“Wait, wait till you get nearer . . .” 

They drove down the last long hill and over the 
paved Route d’Etain into the suburbs of Verdun. 
As they neared it the town began to show its awful 
frailty — its appearance of preservation was a 


72 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


mockery. Verdun stood upright as by a miracle, 
a coarse lace of masonry — not one house was 
whole. 

“Stop!” ordered the Russian, and at the foot 
of the steep, conical hill which wore Verdun upon 
its crest they stopped and stared. The town was 
poured over the slopes of the hill as though a 
titanic tipcart had let out its rubbish upon the sum- 
mit. Houses, shops and churches, still upright, 
still former Verdun, kept its shape intact, unwilling 
that it should fall to dust while these deadly skele- 
tons could keep their feet. Light glared through 
the walls, and upon the topmost point of all the 
palace of the bishop was balanced, its bones laced 
against the sky. The Russian, who had stood up 
in the car, sat down. “Now go on . . .” 

The streets which circled the base of the hill 
had been partially cleared of fallen rock and stone- 
work, and the car could pick its way between the 
crazy shop-fronts, where notices of vanished cob- 
blers, manicurists, butchers, flapped before caverns 
hollowed by fire, upon fingers of stone already 
touched by moss. 

Here and there soldiers moved in bands at their 
work of clearing. But the black hat, the drab coat 
of the civilian had long been left behind — and here 


VERDUN 


73 


the face of a woman was unknown as the flying 
dragons of the world’s youth. 

Now and then with a crash the remains of a 
house fell, as the block of stonework which alone 
supported it was disarranged by the working sol- 
diers. 

“Where am I to go?” asked Fanny, as the street 
wound round the base of the hill. 

“I will climb over beside you and direct you,” 
said the French lieutenant, and dropped into the 
front seat. 

“Where do these soldiers sleep? Not among 
these ruins?” 

A block of masonry fell ahead of them and 
split its stones across the street. 

“Be careful! You can get roimd by this side 
street. Up here ... In these ruins, no! No liv- 
ing soul can sleep in Verdun now.” 

“Where, then?” 

“Don’t you know? They sleep beneath Verdun, 
in this hill around which we are circling. I am 
looking for the entrance.” 

“Inside this hill? Under the town?” 

“But you ’ve heard of the citadelle?” 

“Yes, but . . . this hill is so big.” 

“There are fifteen kilometers of tunnel in this 


74 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


hollow hill, and hundreds of steps lead up to the 
top by the palace, where there is a defense of 
barbed wire and guns. Look, here is the en- 
trance.” 

They left the car. Before them was a small 
dark hole in the side of the hill, an entrance not 
much higher than a man, into which ran a single 
rail line of narrow gage. A sentry challenged 
them as they walked towards him. 

Entering the hill they found themselves in a 
tunnel lit by electric bulbs which hung in a dotted 
line ahead of them. 

“Wait!” ordered the deep voice of the Russian, 
and he strode from them into the depths of the 
tunnel with the Eastern swing of AH Baba enter- 
ing his cave. 

Fanny stood by the mild lieutenant, and they 
waited obediently. 

“I must tell you a secret,” he said fe her. 
“Monsieur Dellahousse is very glad to be here. 
He said this morning: ‘The Governor has sent me 
a woman to break my neck!’ ” 

“But he took me ...” 

“Could he refuse you? For he felt that it was 
a glove of challenge thrown down by the Governor 
of Metz. They do not get on together ... He 


VERDUN 75 

took you with dignity, but he was convinced that 
he placed himself in the jaws of death.” 

“When do we go back? We cannot now be in 
Metz before dark.” 

“But haven’t they told you? Never warned 
you? How monstrous! We are staying here.” 

“And I return alone?” 

“No, you stay too. You are lent to uS for five 
days. They should have told you!” 

“Oh, I stay too! In this tunnel, here! How 
odd, how amusing!” 

“Monsieur Dellahousse has gone to ask the Com- 
mandant of the citadelle to house us all. Here he 
comes.” 

The Russian returned under the chain of lights. 
“Follow me,” he said, and led them further into 
his cavern. 

They followed him like children, and as they 
advanced the lieutenant whispered: “We are now 
well beneath the town. It lies like a crust far 
above our heads. Exactly beneath the palace you 
will see the steps go up . . .” 

“What is the railway line for?” 

“Bread for the garrison. There are great baker- 
ies in the citadelle” 

Further and further still . . . Till the Russian 


76 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


turned to the right and took a branching tunnel. 
Here, lining the curve of the stone wall were twenty 
little cubicles of light wood, raised a few inches 
from the moist floor, and roofless except for the 
arch of the tunnel that ran equally above them all. 
These were the rooms assigned to the officiers de 
passage, officers whom duty kept for a night in 
Verdun. Each cubicle held a bed, a tin basin on 
a tripod, a minute square of looking-glass, a chair 
and a shelf, and each bore the name of its tem- 
porary owner written on a card upon the door. 

“Twenty . . . twenty-one . . . and twenty-two,” 
read the Russian from a paper he carried, and 
threw open the door of twenty-two. 

“This is yours, mademoiselle”; he bowed and 
waved toward it. Fanny entered the room, which, 
from his manner, might have been the gilded ante- 
chamber of his Tzar. 

She heard him enter his own room, and through 
the partition the very sighing of his breath was 
audible as it rustled upon his lips! He tried to 
give her the illusion of privacy, for, wishing to 
speak to her, he left his room again to tap at her 
door, though his voice was as near her ear whether 
at door or wall. 

“I hope you are content, mademoiselle?” he said 
through the woodwork. 


VERDUN 


77 


‘‘Delighted, monsieur. Amused.” 

“You will sleep here,” he continued, as though 
he suspected her of sleeping anywhere but there, 
“and dine with us in the officers’ mess at seven. 
Until then, please stay in the citadelle in case I 
need you.” 

She heard his footsteps go up the corridor, the 
lieutenant following him. “I will unpack,” she 
thought, and from her knapsack drew what she 
had by chance brought with her. Upon the shelf 
she arranged a tin of singe — the French bully- 
beef — a gilt box of powder, a toothbrush, a comb, 
a map, a packet of letters to be answered, and a 
magneto spanner. 

There was an hour yet before dinner and she 
wandered out into the corridors to explore the 
citadelle, A soldier stood upon a ladder chang- 
ing the bulb of an electric light. 

Catching sight of her he hurried from his lad- 
der, and passing her with a stiff face, saluted, and 
disappeared. 

Soon she began to think that this was the busy 
hour in the fortress: the corridors rustled gently, 
the unformed whispering of voices echoed behind 
her. The walls seemed to open at a dozen spots 
as she walked on, and little men with bright, grave 
faces hurried past her about their duties. 


78 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Perhaps they are changing the guard . . 

Yet a face which had already passed her three 
times began to impress its features upon her, and 
she realized suddenly that it was curiosity, not 
duty, that called the soldiers from their bur- 
rows. The news was spreading, for out of the 
gloom ahead fresh parties of onlookers appeared, 
paused disconcerted as she wished them “good 
evening,” nodded or saluted her in haste, then hur- 
ried by. 

An officer with grizzled hair stepped into the 
passage from a doorway. As she neared him she 
saw he wore the badges of a commandant. 

“Who is this?” he asked in a low voice of the 
soldier who followed at his heels. 

“J’n’en sais rien, mon commandant.” The sol- 
dier stiffened as a watch-dog who sees a cat. 

Fanny hastened nearer. “I drive a Russian offi- 
cer,” she explained. “I hope I have your permis- 
sion to stay here.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the officer, looking at her in 
surprise. “Colonel Dellahousse told me ‘a driver’ ; 
he did not add that the driver was a lady. I am 
delighted to welcome you as our guest. Where 
have they put you? Not in the cubicles of tlie 
officiers de passage? No, no, that must be 
changed, that won’t do. Come, you shall sleep in 


VERDUN 


79 


the room next to the bishop’s room, a§ he is absent. 
It is in my corridor.” 

Fanny followed him, and noticed that the corri- 
dor was now clear of soldiers. The commandant 
paused before a door decorated with flags and led 
her into another corridor lined with cubicles much 
larger than those she had seen at first. 

‘‘Open number seven.” 

The soldier took his bunch of keys and opened 
the door. 

“Now fetch mademoiselle’s effects from the 
other corridor. Which number was your room, 
mademoiselle?” 

“Twenty-two. But I can fetch them ... I 
have really nothing.” 

The soldier withdrew. 

“He will get them. You dine with us, I hope, 
to-night at seven. Are you English, mees?” 

“Yes, English — with the French Army. I am 
really so grateful ...” 

“The other room was not possible. I like the 
English, mees. I have known them at my home 
near Biarritz. You and I must talk a little. Do 
you care to read?” 

“Oh, yes, if I get time . . .” 

“Any books you may want please take from my 
sitting-room, number sixteen in this corridor. 


80 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNEPi 


Tenez! I have an English book there — ^The Light 
that Failed’ — I will get it for you.” 

‘‘^Oh! I have read . . . But thank you.” 

rien, de rien! I will get it now.” He 
hastened up the corridor and returned with the 
book in his hand. 

The soldier, too, returned, bearing the seven 
objects which had accompanied her travels. 

‘‘You will clean mademoiselle’s shoes, brush her 
uniform, and bring her hot water when she needs 
it,” ordered the commandant, and the soldier sa- 
luted impassively — a watch-dog who had been told 
that it is the house-cat after all. 

Left alone, she searched all her pockets for some 
forgotten stick of chocolate, and finding nothing, 
sat down upon the bed to wait hungrily till seven. 
The air in the tunnels was heavy and dry, and 
throwing off her tunic she lay down on the bed 
and slept until footsteps passing her door awoke 
her. 

She became aware that the inhabitants of her 
corridor were washing their hands for dinner, and 
sitting up sleepily found that it was already seven. 
In a few minutes she hurried from her room and 
out into the main tunnel, glad to get nearer the 
fresh air which filtered in through the opening at 
the far end. 


VERDUN 


81 


Reaching a door which she had noticed before, 
marked ^^popote/^ she paused a second, listening 
to the hum of voices within, then pushed at the 
door and entered. 

Instantly there was a hush of astonishment as 
seventy or eighty officers, eating at a long trestle 
table, sharply turned their heads towards her, their 
forks poised for a second, their hands still. Then, 
with a quick recovery, all was as before, and the 
stream of talk flowed on. 

The first section of the table was reserved for 
strangers passing through Verdun, and here sat a 
party of young Russian officers in light blouse- 
tunics, an American or two, and a few French offi- 
cers. At the next section sat the officers of the 
citadelle, a passing general, and at the left hand 
of the commandant, Monsieur Dellahousse and the 
mild lieutenant. 

Overhead the stone roof of the tunnel was arched 
with flags, and orderlies hurried up and down 
serving the diners. 

Fanny, halfway up the long table, wavered in 
doubt. Where, after all, was she supposed to 
sit? At the top section, as a guest — or, as a driver, 
among the whispering Russians at the ‘‘stranger” 
section? Her anxiety showed in her face as she 
glanced forwards and backwards and an orderly 


82 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


hurried towards her. “Par ici, mademoiselle, par 
ici!” — and she followed him towards the head of 
the table. Her doubts dissolved as she saw the 
gap left for her by the friendly arm of the lieu- 
tenant, and, arrived at the long wooden bench upon 
which they sat, she bowed to the commandant, and 
lifting one leg beneath her skirt as a hen does 
beneath its feathers, she straddled the difficult 
bench and dropped into position. 

“Beer, mademoiselle? Or red wine?” asked 
the Russian, suddenly turning to her; and the com- 
mandant, released from his conversation, called out 
gaily: “The mees will say ‘water’ — but one must 
insist. Take the wine, mees, it is better for you.” 
The idea of water had never crossed Fanny’s mind, 
but having decided on beer she changed it politely 
to red wine, which she guessed to be no other than 
the everlasting pinard. 

“I know them . . .” continued the command- 
ant, smiling at the general. “I know the Eng- 
lish! My home is at Biarritz and there one meets 
so many.” 

And this old man thus addressed, a great star 
blazing on his breast, and tears of age trembling 
in his blue eyes, lifted his hand to attract her at- 
tention, and said to Fanny in gentle English: 
“Verdun honors a charming guest, mademoiselle.” 


VERDUN 


83 


{“Verdun . . . honors . . His words lin- 
gered in her ear. She a guest, she honored . . . 
here! Ah, no . . .) 

Up till now the novelty of her situation had en- 
grossed her, the little soldiers watching in the tun- 
nels, the commandant so eager to air his stumbling 
English, these had amused her. 

And when she had perceived herself rare, unique, 
she had forgotten why she was thus rare, and what 
strange, monastic life she meddled in. 

Here in this womanless region, in this fortress, 
in this room, night after night, month after month, 
the commandant and his officers had sat at table; 
in this room, which, unlike the tomb, had held only 
the living, while the dead and the threatened-with- 
death inhabited the earth above. 

They had finished dinner and Monsieur Della- 
housse signaled to Fanny that she might rise. She 
rose, and at the full sight of her uniform he re- 
membered her duties and said stiffly: “Be good 
enough to wait up till ten to-night. I may need 
you.” 

They passed out again down the length of the 
tables. Near the door the Russian paused to speak 
with his countrymen, who rose and stood respect- 
fully round him. Fanny and the lieutenant went 
on alone on to the corridor. 


84 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


^^You have traveled with him before?’ she asked. 

^‘Oh, yes. I am lent to him to help him through 
the country. He is on a tour of inspection for the 
Red Cross; he visits all the camps of Russian pris- 
oners liberated from Germany.” 

‘^But are there many round Verdun?” 

‘Thousands. You will see to-morrow. And be 
prepared for early rising. If he doesn’t send for 
you by ten to-night I will tell the orderly to let you 
know the hour at which you will be wanted to- 
morrow morning. The car is all ready to start 
again?” 

“I am going out to her now.” 

He turned away to join the Russian, and Fanny 
passed the sentry at the tunnel’s mouth, and stood 
in the road outside. 

Verdun by night, Verdun by starlight, awaited 
her. 

The sky was less fire than radiance. Up the 
slopes of the hill, every spar, brick and beam, car- 
ried its bristle of gold. At her own head’s im- 
perceptible movement flashes came and went be- 
tween the ribs of the Bishop’s Palace. The sentry 
by the tunnel stood between the upper and the un- 
derground: — with his left eye he could watch the 
lights that strung back into the hollow hill, with 


VERDUN 85 

his right the glittering, the smiling and winking of 
the stars in the sky. 

‘Tait beau dehors.” His voice startled her. 
She turned to him, but he stood immobile in the 
shadow as though he had never spoken. She could 
not be sure that he had indicated to her that every 
man has his taste and his choice. 

She set to work on her car which stood in the 
shelter of an archway opposite, and for half an 
hour the sky trembled unregarded above her head. 
When she had finished she stood back and gazed 
at the Rochet with an anxious, friendly enmity — 
the friendship of an infant with a lion. “The gar- 
age is eighty miles away,” she sighed, “with its 
friendly men who know all where I know so little 
. . . Ah, do I know enough? What have I left 
undone?” For she felt, what was the truth, that 
the whole expedition depended on her, that the 
stately Russian had perhaps never known what it 
was to have a breakdown — that in Moscow, in 
Petrograd, in his far-away life, he had sat in town 
cars behind two chauffeurs, unaware of the deadly 
traps in rubber and metal. 


CHAPTER V 


VERDUN 

N ight was the same as day in the tunnels; the 
electric light was always on, and with the 
morning no daylight crept in to alter it. The or- 
derly called her at half-past six and she took her 
“clients” to a barracks in the suburbs of Verdun, 
where Russian prisoners “liberated” from Ger- 
many crowded and jostled to see her from behind 
the bars of the barrack Square, like wild animals 
in a cage. Armed sentries paced backwards and 
forwards across the gateway to the yard. As it 
came on to snow a French soldier came out of a 
guardroom and invited her in by the fire. 

Inside, the rest of the guard huddled about the 
stove and behind them a Russian prisoner with a 
moon face swept up the crumbs from their last 
meal. 

“Why do Americans guard the gate?” she asked, 
“since you are a French guard?” 

“Because we don’t shoot with enough goodwill,” 
grinned a little man. 

“But who do you want to shoot?” 

86 


VERDUN 


87 


‘‘Those fellows!” said the little man, slapping 
the moon-faced Russian on the thigh. “We used 
to guard the gates a week ago. But the Russians 
were always escaping, and not enough were shot 
as they got over the wall. So they Said: ‘The 
Americans are the types for that!’ and they put 
them on to guard the gates. Look outside! You 
are having a success, mademoiselle!” 

Hundreds of Russians stood about together out- 
side, in strange, poor, scraped-together clothes, 
just as they had come from Germany, peering at 
Fanny in silence through the open doorway. 

“But I thought these were liberated prisoners 
from Germany?” 

“Don’t ask me!” said the little man disgustedly. 
“I wish to heaven they were all back in Germany. 
Look at me! I ’ve fought in the Somme, the Aisne, 
and Verdun, and now at the end of the war I ’m 
left here to look after these pigs!” 

A sergeant entered. “A man to take the pris- 
oner in the fourth cell up to the doctor,” he said 
sharply. 

“It ’s not my turn,” said the little man, ag- 
grieved that the eye of the sergeant should so rest 
on him. “It ’s yours!” he said to the man on the 
bench beside him. “It ’s yours!” replied this man 
to the next. 


88 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Yes, it’s Chaumet’s! Yes, it’s Chaumet’s, 
va-t’en!” they all said, and a man with a cast in his 
eye got up slowly, grumbling, and turned towards 
the door. 

“Here, dress yourself!” 

“What, to take a ... to the doctor?” 

He pulled his belt and gun off the rack with an 
ill-will and disappeared, buckling it on. 

“You have Russians in cells, too?” 

“Those who won’t work, yes. On bread and 
water. That one has been on bread and water for 
five days. In my opinion he ’ll die.” 

“But why won’t they work?” 

“Work! He won’t even clean his own cell out! 
They say it ’s because they are Bolshevists, but I 
don’t know about that. I talk a little Russian, and 
I think they are convinced that if they make them- 
selves at all useful to us we shall never send them 
home. Some of them think they are in Germany 
still. They ’re an ignorant lot.” 

An American came in rather hesitatingly, but 
without nodding to the French. 

“We ’ve got bacon-chips in our camp,” he said, 
addressing Fanny directly. “I don’t like to bring 
them in here, but if you ’d just step across ... it 
is n’t a stone’s throw.” 

She did not like to desert the French, but she 


VERDUN 


89 


was sick with hunger, and rose. She knew she 
would have nothing from the guard-house meal, 
for they probably had the same ration as she^ — 
one piece of meat, two potatoes, and one sardine 
a man. 

After all, food was more important than senti- 
ment, and she followed him out of the hut. 

“You won’t get anything from those skinflints,” 
said the American, “so we thought you ’d better 
come and have some chips.” 

“Because they have nothing to give,” she an- 
swered, half inclined to turn back. The American 
barracks were opposite, and in the yard, under a 
shelter of planks, the men were eating round a 
complicated traveling kitchen on wheels. “They 
have all the latest, richest things,” thought Fanny, 
jealous for the French, antagonistic, yet hungry. 
But when she was among them, they were Simple 
and kind to her, offering her a great tray of fried 
bacon chips, concerned that she should have to 
eat them with her hand, washing out their tin mugs 
and filling them with coffee for her, making her 
sit on a barrel while she ate. “It ’s only that they 
are so different,” she thought. “So different from 
the French that they can never meet without hurting 
and jarring each other.” 

Russians slouched about in the snow, washing 


90 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the pans. When they had finished eating the Amer- 
icans called to the Russians to eat what remained 
of the bacon chips. Watching them eat with the 
hunger of animals, they said; “They starve them 
in the French barracks. We give them food here, 
or they M sure die.” 

“They give them what they can in the French 
barracks; the soldiers don’t get a ration like this, 
you know, even for themselves.” 

“Their fault for not kicking up a shindy,” said 
the free-born Americans. “We would n’t stand 
it.” 

“You have no idea of poverty.” 

Food was even lying in the snow. A soldier 
cook thrust his head out of a hut, crying: “Any 
one want any more chips?” 

She knew that it was probably true what the 
Frenchman had said, that the Americans shot the 
Russians as lightly as if they were sparrows. Yet 
here they wept over the French ration that kept the 
Russians hungry, though alive and well. What a 
curious mixture of sentiment and brutality they 
were ... 

She pulled out her cigarette case and offered a 
cigarette to a man standing near her. He took it 
and answered in a thick, lisping Jewish accent, soft 
and unformed: “I don’t smoke, m’am. But 


VERDUN 


91 


I ’ll keep it as a souvenir give to me by the only 
lady I ’ve seen in three months.” 

“That ’s really true? You have n’t Seen a 
woman for three months?” 

“No, ma’am. Not a one. It must seem strange 
to you to hear us say that. Just as though you 
was a zebra.” 

“There ’s some one over by your car,” said the 
sentry, who had no idea of silence at his post. She 
got up quickly and flew back to the other barracks, 
jumping the deep pools of water and mud and the 
little heaps of soiled snow, started up the car and 
drove hack to the citadel for lunch. 

At one-thirty they started out again, to chase over 
the gray downs in search of Russian camps folded 
away in small depressions and hollows, invisible 
from the main roads. 

And thus, day after day, for five days, she drove 
him from morning to evening, from camp to camp 
around Verdun, until they had seen many thou- 
sands of Russians. Sometimes the French lieu- 
tenant came with them, and once or twice the Rus- 
sian gravely invited him to sit in front with their 
driver. Then they would talk together a little 
in English, and once he said: “Would you like 
me to tell you something that will surprise you and 
interest me?” 


92 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


She looked round. 

“Your employer,” he said, smiling gently over 
the expression, “is jealous of you,” 

She did not know what to make of this. 

“He dislikes it intensely when you talk to the 
commandant of the citadelle.” 

“But . . .” 

“He does not think you exclusive enough, con- 
sidering you, as he does, as his woman.” 

“But, why . . .” 

“Yes, of course! But you ought to realize that 
you are the only woman for miles around, and 
you belong to us!” 

“You too?” 

“Well, yes. I have something the same feeling. 
But his is stronger because his nature is Oriental. 
He thinks : ‘This woman is a great curiosity, 
therefore a great treasure; and this treasure be- 
longs to me. I brought her here, I am responsible 
for her, she obeys my orders.’ ” 

^‘But does he tell you all this, or do you guess 
it?” 

‘‘We talk of this and that.” 

That night in the mess-room the Russian leaned 
across the table to Fanny. 

“What is man’s mystery to a woman if she lives 
surrounded by him?” 


VERDUN 


93 


but that’s not necessary . . . mystery!” 

‘‘It is necessary to love.” 

“Colonel Dellahousse,” explained the lieutenant, 
smiling very much, “does not believe that you can 
love what you know/^ 

The Russian nodded. “Love is based on a fab- 
ulous belief. An illusory image which fills the 
eyes of people who are unused to each other. This 
poor lady will soon be used to everything.” 

Fanny, who had felt momentarily alarmed, sud- 
denly remembered Julien. 

“When do we go hack?” she asked absently. 

The sympathetic eyes of the lieutenant seemed 
to understand even that, and he smiled again. 

They left next day, after the midday meal. 

Before lunch she met a soldier, who stopped her 
in one of the branching corridors. 

“You are going,” he said. “I have a little thing 
to ask.” 

She waited. 

“Mademoiselle, it would not incommode you, it 
is such a little thing. Think! We have not seen 
a woman here so long.” 

Still she waited; and he muttered, already 
abashed: 

“One kiss certainly would not hurt you, made- 
moiselle.” 


94 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Let me pass . . she stammered to this mem- 
ber of the great “monastery.” 

He wavered and stood aside, and she went on 
up the corridor vaguely ashamed of her refusal. 

“We go now,” said the Russian, rising from the 
luncheon table. “Are you satisfied with your ex- 
perience, mademoiselle?” 

“My experience?” 

“Verdun. This life is strange to you. I have 
seen you reflective. Now, if you will go out to 
the car you shall go back to your civilized town 
where the Governor so dislikes me, and you shall 
see your women friends again! But we are not 
coming all the way with you.” 

“No?” 

“No, we ^tay at Briey. You return from Briey 
alone.” 

They set out once more upon the roads which 
ran between the dead violence of the plains — be- 
tween trenches that wandered down from the side 
of a sandy hillock, by villages which appeared like 
an illusion upon a hillside, fading as they passed 
and reforming into the semblance of houses in the 
distance behind them. 

The clouds above their heads were built up to 
a great height, rocky and cavernous; crows swung 


VERDUN 


95 


on outspread wings, dived and alighted heavily on 
the earth like fowls. They came behind the old 
German lines, and the road changing led them 
through short patches of covering woods filled with 
instruments. Depot after depot was piled between 
the trees and the notices hanging from the branches 
chattered antique directions at them. ‘‘The drink- 
ing trough — the drinking trough!” cried one, but 
they had no horse to water. “Take this path!” 
urged another, “for the . . .” but they flew by 
too fast to read the end of the message, while the 
path pursued them a little way among the pines, 
then turned abruptly away. “Do not smoke here 
. . . ISicht rauchen/' “Night Rauchen,” ''Rau- 
chert streng verboten,^^ cried the notices, in furious 
impotent voices. The wood chattered and spat 
with cries, with commands for which the men who 
made them cared no longer. The hungry noses of 
old guns sniffed at the car as it rolled by, guns 
dragging still upon their flanks the tom cloak 
of camouflage — small squat guns which stared idly 
into the air, or with wider mouths still, like petri- 
fied dogs forever baying at the moon — long slim 
guns which lay along the grass and pushing under- 
growth — and one gun which had dipped forward 
and, fallen upon its knees, howled silenced impre- 
cations at the devil in the center of the earth. 


96 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


When they had passed the shattered staging of 
the past they came out upon the country which 
had been occupied by Germans but not by war- 
fare. Here the fields, uncultivated, had grown 
wild, but round the sparse villages little patches of 
ground had been dug and sown. Not a cow 
grazed anywhere, not a sheep or a goat. No hens 
raced wildly across village streets. Far ahead on 
the white ribbon of road a black figure toiled in 
the gutter and Fanny debated with herself: 
‘‘Might I offer a lift?” 

Looking ahead she saw no village or cottage 
within sight, and with a murmured apology to 
the Russian she pulled up beside the old woman 
whom she had overtaken. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To Briey.” 

“We, too. Get in, madame.” 

The Russian made no comment. The old crone, 
knuckled, hard-breathing, climbed in, holding un- 
certainly to the wind-screen and pulling after her 
her basket and umbrella. 

“Cover yourself, madame,” ordered Fanny, as 
to a child, and handed her a rug. 

“I have never been in an auto before,” whis- 
pered the old creature against the wind which 


VERDUN 97 

made her almost breathless. have seen them 
pass.” 

are not afraid?” 

‘^Oh, no!” 

^‘Cover yourself well, well.” 

Gallant old women, toiling like ants upon the 
long stretches of road, who, suddenly finding them- 
selves projected through the air at a pace they had 
never experienced in their lives before, would say 
not a word, though the color be whipped to their 
cheeks and their eyes rained tears until, clinging 
to the arm of the driver: ^^Stop here, mademoi- 
selle!” they would whisper, expecting the car to 
rear and stop dead at their own doorstep; and 
finding themselves still carried on, and half believ- 
ing themselves kidnapped: “Ah, mademoiselle, 
stop, stop . . .” 

They slipped down into the pit of Briey where 
the houses cling to the sides of a circular hollow, 
and drew up by a white house which the French- 
man indicated. 

The old woman searched, trembling and out of 
breath, for her handkerchief, and wiped her 
streaming eyes; then, as she climbed out backwards, 
with feet feeling for the ground — “What do I owe 
you, mademoiselle?” 


98 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Ah, nothing, nothing.” 

“Mais si! I am not at all poor!” and leaving 
a twopence-halfpenny piece on the seat, she hur- 
ried away. 

Colonel Dellahousse came to the side of the car 
and thanked Fanny ceremoniously. “And if I 
do not see you again, mademoiselle,” he said, “re- 
member what I say and go back to your home 
before the pleasure of life is spoiled for you.” 

“Good-by, good-by,” said the French lieutenant. 

Soon after she had left Briey the dark fell. A 
river circled at the foot of a hill, and she followed 
its windings on a road which ran just above it. 
Night wiped out the colors on the hills around her; 
imtil the moon rose and they glowed again, half 
trees, half light. She climbed slowly up to a 
plateau not a dozen miles from Metz. 


An hour later, the car put away in the garage, 
Fanny was tapping at the window of the bath house 
in the town. The beautiful fat woman who pre- 
pared the baths answered her tap. “Fraulein,” 
said Fanny, “would it matter if I had a bath? Is 
it too late? I T1 turn it on myself and dry it after- 
wards.” 

What did the woman mind if Fanny had a bath? 


VERDUN 


99 


Fat and beautiful she had nothing left to wish for, 
and contentedly she gave her the corner room over- 
looking the canal and the theater square, wishing 
her a good-night full of German blessings. The 
water ran boiling out of the tap and the smoke 
curled up over the looking-glass and the window- 
sill. 

When the bath was full to the brim she got in, 
lay back, and pulled open the window with her toe. 
The beautiful French theater, piebald with snow 
and shadow, shone over the window-sill. The Ca- 
thedral clock struck out ten chimes, whirling and 
singing over her head, the voices of the little boys 
died down, the last had thrown his last snowball 
and gone to bed. The steam rose up like a veil 
before the window, and once again, between the 
gray walls of her bath — so like her cradle and her 
coflSn — she meditated upon the riches and treasure 
of the passing days. 

‘‘And yet,” echoed the thoughts in that still wa- 
ter traveling still, “to travel is not to move across 
the earth.” 

“What was that verse I made the night before I 
came abroad?” And peering back into the past, 
frowning in the effort to string forgotten words to- 
gether, Fanny whispered upon the surface of the 
water: 


100 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“The strange things of travel, 

The East and the West, 

The hill beyond the hill — ” 

But the poem was shattered as the voice of the 
bath woman called to her through the door. 

^‘You are well, fraulein?” 

Fanny turned in her bath, astonished. ^‘Why, 
yes, thank you! Did you think I was ill?” 

did n’t know. I dare n’t go to bed till I see 
you out, for last week we had a woman who killed 
herself in here, drowned in the water. I have just 
remembered her.” 

^‘Well, I won’t drown myself.” 

“I can never be sure now. She gave me such 
a shock.” 

"^‘Well, I ’m getting out,” said Fanny. 

‘mat?” 

“I ’m getting out. Listen!” And the naked 
feet padded and splashed down upon the cork mat. 
“Now go to bed. I promise you I have no reason 
to drown myself.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 

H OW do you know you will meet him?” said 
the cold morning light; and when she walked 
in it the city looked big enough to hide his face. 
In the first street a girl said the name of Julien 
without knowing what it was she said. But only 
a child shrieked in answer from a magic square of 
chalk upon the pavement. 

‘‘You Ve been away for days and days,” said 
her companions at the garage, to show that they 
had noticed it. “Where have you been?” 

The garage faded. “Verdun,” she said; and 
Verdun, lacy and perilous, hung in her mind. 
“Whom did you take?” 

She struggled with the confusing image of the 
Russian. Before she could reply the other said: 
“There ’s to be an inspection of the cars this morn- 
ing. You ’ll have to get something done to your 
car! 

Outside in the yard the sun was gay upon the 
thinly frosted stones, but in the shadow of the 
garage the glass and brass of seventy or eighty 
101 


102 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


cars glowed in a veiled bloom of polish. Only 
the Rochet-Schneider, which had been to Verdun 
stood unready for the inspection, coated from 
wheel to hood in white Meuse mud. There was 
nothing to be done with her until she had been un- 
der the hose. 

Out in the street, where the hose was fastened 
to the hydrant, the little pests of Metz clustered 
eagerly, standing on the hose pipe where the bursts 
were tied with string, and by dexterous pressure 
diverting the leaks into gay fountains that flew up 
and pierced the windows opposite. As the mud 
rolled off under the blast of the hose and left the 
car streaky and dripping, the little boys dipped 
their feet into the gutters and paddled. 

Soaked and bareheaded, Fanny drove the clean 
car slowly back into the garage and set her in her 
place in the long line. 

Stewart, beside her, whispered, “They ’ve come, 
they ’ve come ! They ’re starting at the other end. 
Four officers.” 

Fanny pulled her tin of English “Brasso” from 
a pocket-flap, and began to rub a lamp. At the 
far, far end of the long shed four men were stand- 
ing with their backs to her, round a car. The 
globed lamp was tricky and the chamois-leather 
would slip and let her bark her knuckle on the 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 103 


bracket. But the glow, born in the brags, grew 
clearer and clearer, till suddenly, stooping to it, 
she looked into a mirror and saw all the garage 
behind her and the long rows of cars bent in a 
yellow curve, and the little men and oily women 
walking incredibly upon the rounded ball of the 
world. They hung with their feet on curving walls, 
running and walking without difficulty, blinking, 
moving, talking in a yellow lake of brass. 

Julien, Denis and two others, stopping at car 
after car, came nearer and nearer. And Julien, 
holding the inspection, nodded gravely to their 
comments, searching car after car with his eyes 
as he walked up the garage, until they rested on 
the head and the hair of the girl he knew; then 
he paused, three cars from her, and watched the 
head as it hung motionless, level with the lamp she 
had just turned into a mirror. 

And within the field of her vision he had just 
appeared. He paused, fantastic, upon the ball of 
the world, balanced amazingly with his feet on the 
slope of a golden corridor, and, hypnotized, she 
watched his face, bent into the horn of a young 
moon — Julien, and yet unearthly and impossible. 
There were his two hands, lit in a brassy fire, hang- 
ing down his sides, and the can which he held in 
his left went out beyond the scope of the corridor. 


104 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


The three others hung around him like bent com. 
She watched these yellow shades, as tall as ladders, 
talk and act in the little theater of the lamp . . . 
He was coming up to her, he became enormous, his 
head flew out of the top of the world, his feet ran 
down into the center of the earth. He was effacing 
the garage, he had eaten up the corridor and all 
the cars. He must be touching her, he must have 
swallowed her too, his voice in her ear said: 
“You ’d gone forever . . .” 

“I ... I had gone?” She drew her gaze out 
of the mirror. 

The world outside let him down again on to his 
feet, and he stood beside ber and said gently in her 
ear: “Will you meet me again in the Cathedral at 
four to-day?” She nodded, and he turned away, 
and she saw that he was so unknown to her that 
she could hardly tell his uniformed back from the 
backs of those about him. 

To meet this stranger at four in the Cathedral 
she prepared herself with more care than she would 
have given to meet her oldest friend. The gilded 
day went by while she did little things with the 
holy air of a nun at her lamp — polishing her shoes, 
her belt, her cap badge, sitting on her bed beneath 
the stag’s horn, an enraptured sailor upon the deck 
of the world. Around the old basin on tbe wash- 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 105 


stand faded blue animals chased each other and 
snapped at ferns and roses: she lifted the jug and 
drowned the beasts in water, and even to wash her 
hands was a rite which sent a shower of thoughts 
flying through her mind. How many before her 
had called this room a sanctuary, a temple, and 
prepared as carefully as she for some charmed 
meeting in the crannies of the town? This room? 
This ‘‘corridor.” The passengers, travelers, sol- 
diers, who had used this bed for a night and passed 
on, thought of it only as a segment in the endless 
chain of rooms that sheltered them. Bed, wash- 
stand, chair, table, rustled with history. Soldiers 
resting from the battle out there by Pont-a-Mous- 
sons, kissing the girl who lived in the back room, 
waking in the morning as darkly as she, leaving the 
room to another. Soldiers, new-fledged, coming 
up from Germany, trembling in the room as they 
heard the thunder out at Pont-a-Moussons. An 
officer — that ugly, wooden boy who stared at her 
from the wall above the mantelpiece. (What a 
mark he had left on the household that they should 
frame him in velvet and keep him staring at his 
own bed forever!) She all but saw spirits — and 
shivered at the procession of life. Outside in the 
street she heard a cry, and her name called under 
the window. How like the cry that afternoon a 


106 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


week ago which had sent her to Verdun! Stand- 
ing in the shadow of the curtain she peered cau- 
tiously out. 

At sight of her, a voice cried up from the Street: 
“There is a fancy dress dance next Tuesday night! 
I ’m warning every one; it ’s so hard to get stuffs.” 
The voice passed on to the house where Stewart 
lived. 

(“How nice of her!”) This was a good day. 
(“What shall I wear at the dance?”) There, about 
the face of the clock, windless and steady, hung 
the hours. Not yet time to start, not yet. 

Through the lace of the curtain and the now 
closed window, the shadows hurried by upon the 
pavement, heads bobbed below upon the street. 

Oh Dark, and Pale, and Plain, walking soberly 
in hat and coat, what sign in these faces of the 
silver webbery within the brain, of the flashing 
fancies and merry plans, like birds gone mad in 
a cage! The tram, as antique as a sedan chair, 
clanked across the bridge over the river, and chang- 
ing its note as it reached firmer land, roared and 
bumbled like a huge bee into the little street. 
Stopping below her window it was assailed by lit- 
tle creatures who threw themselves as greedily 
within as if they were setting out upon a wild ad- 
venture. 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 107 


“All going to meet somebody,” said Fanny, 
whose mind, drowned in her happiness, took the 
narrowest view of life. But for all their push and 
hurry the little creatures in the glass cage were 
forced to unfold their newspapers and stare at 
each other for occupation while the all-powerful 
driver and wattmann, climbing down from the op- 
posite ends of the car, conferred together in the 
street. “It’s waiting for the other tram!” And 
even as she said it, she found the clock behind her 
back had leapt mysteriously and slyly forward. 
“I ’ll take the other . . .” And, going down- 
stairs, she stood in the shelter of her doorway, out 
of the cold wind that blew along the street. The 
delay of the other car brought her well up to her 
hour. “I ’ll even be a little late,” she thought, 
proud of herself.” 

“Don’t talk to the wattmann,” said the notices in 
the tramcar crossly to her in German as she slipped 
and slid upon its straining seats. “Don’t spit, 
don’t smoke . . . don’t . . But she had her 
revenge, for across all the notices her side of the 
war had written coldly: “You are begged, in the 
measure possible to you, to talk only French.” 

When they got into the narrow town the tramcar, 
mysteriously swelling, seemed to chip the shop win- 
dows and bump the front doors, and people upon 


108 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the pavement scrambled between the glass of the 
tram and the glass of the big drapery shop. 

They met, as it were, in the very center of a con- 
versation. “I never know where you are,” he 
complained, as though this trouble was so in his 
thoughts that he must speak of it at once. “Or 
when I shall see you again.” She smiled radi- 
antly, busier with greeting, less absorbed than he. 

“You may go away and never come back. You 
go so far.” 

She went away, often and far. But that was his 
trouble, not hers. He, at least, remained stationary 
in Metz. She was full of another thought — the 
vagueness, the precariousness of the chance, that 
even in Metz had brought them together. 

“How lucky . . 

“How lucky what?” 

How lucky? How lucky? He begged, im- 
plored, frowned, tried to peer. He would not let 
her rest. “Why should you hide what you think? 
I don’t like it.” 

Oh, no, he did not like it. No one likes to get 
hint of that fountain of talk which, sweet or bitter, 
plays just out of reach of the ear, just behind the 
mask of the face. 

“How lucky that you held the inspection!” had 
all but stolen from her lips. But this implied too 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 109 


clearly that it was lucky for somebody — ^for her, 
for him. And how could she say that? Her 
thoughts were so far in advance of her confessions. 
A dozen sentences rose to her lips, all too clear, 
too intimate. So she became silent before the 
things that she could not say. 

^‘Of what are you thinking?” 

Extortionate question. (^‘Am I to put all my 
fortune in your hand like that? Am I to say, ‘Of 
you, of you?’ ”) For every word she said aloud 
she said a hundred to herself ; and after three words 
between them she had the impression of a whole 
conversation. So it is when lovers part and the 
confidante asks: “What did he say?”. The 
woman cannot disentangle the outer from the in- 
ner speech, and there is nothing to report. 

“One must arrange some plan,” he said, pursu- 
ing his perplexity, “so that I know when you go, 
and when you come back. I can’t always be hold- 
ing inspections to find out.” 

“It was for that that you held the inspection!” 

“Why, of course, of course!” 

“But entirely to find out?” (divided between 
the desire to make him say it again and the fear 
of driving his motives into daylight). 

“I did n’t know what to do. I could n’t tele- 
phone and ask whether your car had returned. 


110 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Wonderful and excellent! She had had the no- 
tion while she was at Verdun that something might 
be rolling up to her account in the bank at Metz, 
and now he was giving her proof after proof of 
the accumulation. 

But from the valley of vanity she suddenly flew 
up to wonder. “He does that for me!” looking 
at herself in the mirror of her mind. “He does 
it for me!” But of what use to look at the day- 
light image of herself — the khaki figure, the driver? 
“For he must be looking at glory as I do.” The 
Russian said: “Love is an illusory image.” 
“Isn’t it strange how these human creatures can 
cast it like a net out of their personality? . . .” 
Vanity, creeping above love, beat it down like a 
fetick beats down a fire; it was too easy to-day; he 
gave her nothing left to wish for; the spell over 
him, she felt, was complete, and now she had noth- 
ing else to do but develop her own. And this she 
had instantly less inclination to do. But, guided 
by his bright wits, he too withdrew, let the tacit 
assumption of intimacy drop between them, and 
their walk by the Moselle was filled by her talk 
of the Russian prisoners and Verdun. 

She glanced at him from time to time, and 
would have grown more silent, but by his light 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 111 


questions he kept her talking briskly on, offering 
her no new proof, until she grew unsure and won- 
dered whether she had been mistaken; and, the 
hour striking for her supper, in the town she went 
to it, filled anew with his charm and her anxiety. 
Other meetings came, when, thrilling with the see- 
saw of belief and doubt, they watched each other 
with absorbed attention, and in their fragile and 
unconfessed relationship sometimes one was the 
victor and sometimes the vanquished. Yet what 
was plain to the man who swept the mud from the 
streets was not plain to them. 

(‘‘Does he love me already?” 

“Will she love me soon?”) 

When they saw other couples by the banks of 
the Moselle, Reason in a convinced and careless 
voice said: “That is love!” But on coming to- 
wards each other they were not sure at all, and 
each said of the other: “To-morrow he may not 
meet me . . .” 

“To-morrow she will say she is busy and it will 
not be true!” When Fanny said, “He may not 
meet me,” she was mad. How could he fail to 
meet her when the rolling hours hung fire and 
buzzed about his head like loaded bees, unable to 
proceed; when in a lethargy of vision he signed 


112 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


his name at the bottom of the typewritten sheet, say- 
ing confusedly: “What does she think? Does 
she think of me?” 

When at last they met under the shadow of the 
Cathedral they would exclaim in their hearts: 
“What next?” and hurry off by the Moselle, look- 
ing into the future. Looking into the future, and 
yet warding it off, aware of the open speech that 
must soon lie between them, and yet charmed by 
the beautiful, the merciful, delay. And going 
home, each would study the hours they had spent 
together, as a traveler returned from wonderful 
lands pores over the cold map which for him spar- 
kles with mountains and rivers. 

That very Saturday night after the early sup- 
per in their room in the town, she had gone out to 
the big draper’s shop which did not close till seven; 
almost running into Reherrey on the pavement. 

“I ’m going to Weile,” he said. 

“I ’m going there myself.” 

“To get your dress?” 

“Yes.” 

They went into the large, empty shop together, 
to be surrounded at once by a group of idle girls. 

“Stuffs . . .” said Fanny, thinking vaguely. 

“Black bombazine,” said Reherrey, who had fin- 
ished his thinking. 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 113 


Fanny followed Reherrey to a newly-polished 
counter, backed by rows of empty shelves. They 
had no black bombazine. 

“Black tulle,” said Reherrey, with his air of 
cool indifference, “black gauze, black cotton . . .” 

It had to be black sateen in the end. “Now 
you!” said Reherrey, when he had bought six yards 
at eight francs a yard. 

“White . . . something . . . for me.” 

There was white nothing under sixteen francs a 
yard. “But cheap, cheap, cheap stuff,” she ex- 
postulated — “stuff you would make lamp-shades 
of, or dusters. It ’s only for a fancy dress.” The 
idle little girls assumed a special air. Fanny 
looked round the shop in desperation. It was 
like all the shops in Metz — the window dressed, 
the saleswomen ready, the shelves scrubbed out 
and polished, the lady waiting at the pay desk — 
but the goods had n’t come! 

Here and there a shelf held a roll or two of some 
material, and eventually Fanny bought seven yards 
of white soft stuff at seven francs a yard. 

“White,” said Reherrey, with a critical look; 
“how English!” 

Fanny had an idea of her own. 

“Wo,” she said heavily to Elsa’s mother still 
later in the evening, “ist eine Schneiderin?” 


114 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“A dressmaker who speaks French . . 

Elsa took her out into the dark street again, and 
in at a neighboring archway, till at the back of 
deep courtyards they found the tiny flat of a little 
old lady. 

“Like this,” explained Fanny, drawing with her 
pencil. 

“Why, my mother had a dress like that!” said 
the little lady, pleased. “Before the last war.” 
She nodded many times, “I know how to make a 
crinoline. But when do you want it?” 

“For Tuesday night.” 

“Ah, dear mademoiselle! How can I? To- 
day is Saturday. I have only to-day and Mon- 
day. Unless . , . Are you a Catholic?” 

“No.” 

“Then you can sew on Sunday. You can do the 
frills.” 

All Sunday Fanny sewed frills under the stag’s 
horn, and when she went to meet Julien in the late 
afternoon she had the frills still in a parcel. 
“What is that?” he asked, as she unfolded the par- 
cel in the empty Cathedral, and began to thread her 
needle. 

“My dress for the dance.” 

“What is it going to be?” 

“Frills. Hundreds of frills.” She shook her 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 115 


lap a little and yards and yards of white frills 
leapt on to the floor in a river. 

“Those flowers you bought, look, you have never 
put them in water!” 

He shook his head, and leaning from his chair, 
stretched out his arm for the parcel of white paper. 
“They are dying. Smell them 1 They yield more 
scent when they die.” She sat holding the flowers 
near her face, and not thinking of him very dis- 
tinctly, but not thinking of anything else. 

“But they won’t last.” 

“They will last this visit. I ’ll get new ones.” 

“Oh, how extravagant you are with happi- 
ness . . .” 

They looked startled and became silent. For 
every now and then among their talk some sentence 
which they had thought discreet rang out with a 
clarity which disturbed them. 

Between them there had been no avowal, and 
neither could count on the other’s secret. She was 
not sure he loved her; and though he argued, “Why 
should she come if she does not care?” he watched 
her sit by him with as little confidence, with as much 
despair, as if she sat on the other side of the At- 
lantic Ocean. “Is it raining again? How dark 
it gets. I must soon go.” She made gaps in and 


116 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


scattered that alarming silence in which the image 
of each filled and fitted into the thoughts of the 
other like an orange into its close rind. Yet so 
dark and perfect is the mask of the face, so dull 
the inner ear, that each looked uncertainly about, 
half deaf to the song which issued so plainly from 
the other, distracted by the great gaps in the music. 

“Won’t you stay with me till you have sewn to 
the end of that frill?” 

She sat down again without a word. And, 
greedy after his victory, he added: “But I 
ough n’t to keep you?” 

“I want to stay, too.” 

The frill flowed on with the beat of the Cathe- 
dral clock, and came to an end. 

“Now I must go. It’s supper — supper in the 
garage.” 

He walked with her almost in silence down the 
Cathedral steps and to the door of the house in 
the dark street by the river. 

“You do say good-by so curiously,” he remarked. 
“So suddenly. Perhaps it ’s English.” 

“Perhaps it is,” she agreed, disappearing into 
the house. 

“What have you got there?” said her compan- 
ions in the lighted room upstairs. 

“My dress for the dance.” But she did not 


THE LOVER IN THE LAMP 117 


open the parcel to show the charmed frills. 
(“How is it they don’t know that I left him in the 
street below?”) She looked at the eight travelers 
who met each night round the table for dinner, 
overcome with the mystery of those uncommuni- 
cating, shrouded heads. “What have they all been 
doing?” 

“Has every one had runs?” 

“Yes, every one has been out. What have you 
been doing?” 

“I have n’t left Metz to-day,” she replied, giddy 
with the isolation and the silence of the human 
mind. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE THREE “CLIENTS” 

W HAT!” cried Fanny on Monday morning, 
staring at the brigadier and at the pink 
paper he offered her. 

“At once, at once, mademoiselle. You ought 
to have been told last night. You must go back 
for your things for the night and then as quickly 
as you can to the Hotel de I’Europe. I don’t know 
how many days you ’ll be, but here is an order for 
fifty liters of petrol and a can of oil, and Pichot 
is getting you two spare tubes . . .” 

She stared at him in horror a moment longer, 
then took the pink order and disappeared through 
the dark garage door. Her mind was in a frenzy 
of protestation. She saw the waiting cars which 
might have gone instead, the drivers polishing a 
patch of brass for want of something to do, and 
accident, pure accident, had lighted on her, to 
sweep her out of Metz, away from that luminous 
personality which brooded over the city like a sun- 
set, out into the nondescript world, the cold Any- 
where. White frills and yards of bleached calico 
118 


THE THREE “aiENTS” 


119 


lying at the dressmaker’s cried out to her to stay, 
to make some protest, to say something, anything — 
that she was ill — and stay. 

She splashed petrol wastefully into the tank, 
holding the small blue tin with firm hands high 
in the air above the leather strainer and the funnel. 

“And if I said — (it is mad) — if I said, ‘I am 
in love. 1 can’t go. Send some one who is not 
in love!’ ” She glanced down from her perch on 
the footboard at the olive profile bent over the 
next car. The driver was sitting on the step of his 
car with his open hand outstretched to make a cup 
of his hand for a dozen bright washers which he 
was stirring with his forefinger. The hand with 
the washers sank gently to rest on his knee, and he 
sighed as he ceased stirring, and looked absently 
down the garage, his mystical cloak of bone and 
skin shrouding his thoughts. Idle men all down 
the garage hung about the cars, each holding within 
him some private affection, some close hope, some- 
thing which sent a spurt of dubious song out of his 
mouth, or his eyes, wandering sightless, down the 
shed. 

The tank, resenting her treatment, overflowed 
violently and drenched her skirt and feet. 

“Are you ready, mademoiselle?” 

“Coming. Where are the tubes?” 


120 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“I have them.” 

She drove through the yard, down the street, 
and hurried over the bridge to her room. Night- 
gown, toothbrush, comb, sponge, and powder — hat- 
ing every hour of the days and nights her prepara- 
tions meant. 

At the Hotel de PEurope, three men waited for 
her with frowns, loaded with plaid rugs, mufflers, 
black bags, and gaping baskets of food, from which 
protruded bottles of wine. It was, then, to be one 
of those days when they lunched by the wayside in 
the bitter cold. 

She drew up beside them. A huge man with an 
unclean bearskin coat and flaccid red cheeks told 
her she was very late. She listened, apologizing, 
but intent only on her question. 

“And could you tell me — (I ’m so dreadfully 
sorry, but they only told me very late at the garage) 
— and would you mind telling me which day you 
expect to get back?” 

He turned to the others. 

“It depends,” said a dry, dark man with a look 
of rebuke, “on our work. To-morrow night, per- 
haps. Perhaps the next morning.” 

“Where shall I drive you?” 

“Go out by Thionville. We are going up the 
Moselle to Treves.” 


THE THREE “CLIENTS” 


121 


Anxious to dispose of such a mountain of a man, 
it was suggested that the Bearskin should climb in 
beside the driver. Instantly, Fanny was smoth- 
ered up as he sat down, placing so many packages 
between himself and the outer side of the car that 
he sank heavily against her arm, and the fur of his 
coat blew into her mouth. 

In discomfort she drove them from the town, 
brooding over her wheel, unhappily on and on till 
Metz had sunk over the edge of the flat horizon. 
The weary way to Thionville unfurled before them, 
furnaces to the left and flat grass prairie to the 
right — little villages and clustering houses went 
by them, and Thionville itself, with its tramlines 
and faint air of Manchester drew near. Beyond 
Thionville the road changed color abruptly, and 
stretched red and gravelly before them. The frost 
deepened, the wheels bit harder on the road surface, 
the grass-fields sparkled with a brittle light, and 
Scanty winter orchards sprang up beside the road, 
which narrowed down and became a lane of beau- 
tiful surface. Not for long, however, for the sur- 
face changed again, and long hours set in when 
the car had to be held desperately with foot and 
hand brake to save the springs, and the accelerator 
could only be touched to be relinquished. 

Fanny, hardly sad any more, but busy and hun- 


122 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


gry, secretly lifted the comer of her sleeve to peer 
at her wrist- watch, and seeing that it was half -past 
twelve, began to wonder how soon they would de- 
cide to sit down by the roadside for their lunch. 
She fumbled in the pocket of the car, but the last 
piece of chocolate had either been eaten or had 
slipped down between the leather and the wood. 
She could bring up nothing better than an old post- 
card, a hairpin, and a forgotten scrap of chamois- 
leather. 

At last they stopped for lunch, choosing a spot 
where a hedge rose wirily against the midday sky, 
and spread the rugs on the frozen grass. The sud- 
den cessation of movement and noise brought a 
stillness into the landscape; a child’s voice startled 
them from the outskirts of a village beyond, and 
the crackle of a wheelbarrow that was being driven 
along the dry road. 

The third man, who had blackberry eyes, and 
glasses which enlarged them, made great prepara- 
tions over the setting of the meal. They had for- 
gotten nothing. When they sat down, the Bear- 
skin upon the step of the motor, the other cross- 
legged upon the ground, each man had a napkin as 
big as a sheet spread across the surface of his coat 
and waistcoat, and tied into the band of the over- 
coat at the side. Bottles of red wine, and a bottle 


THE THREE ^‘CLIENTS” 


123 


of white to finish with, lay on a cloth spread upon 
the grass. Bread, cheese, sausage, pate, and a 
slab of chocolate; knives, forks and a china cup 
apiece. Fanny, who had taken her own uneatable 
lunch from the garage was made to eat some of 
theirs. They were on a high, dry, open plateau of 
land, and the winter sun, not strong enough to 
break the frost, faintly warmed their necks and 
hands and the round bodies of the bottles. 

It was not unpleasant sitting there with the three 
white-chested strangers, watching the sky through 
the prongs of the bare hedge, spreading pate on to 
fresh bread, and balancing her cup half-full of red 
wine among the fibers and roots of the grass. 

“Now that I have started I am well on my way 
to getting back,” she thought, and found that within 
her breast the black despair of the morning had 
melted. She watched her companions for amuse- 
ment. 

The Bearskin, cumbrous, high-colored, and blue- 
eyed, looked like an innkeeper in an English tav- 
ern. When he took off his cloth hood she thought 
she had never seen anything so staring as the pink 
of his face against the blue of his cap; but when 
the cap came off too for a second that he might stir 
his forehead with his finger, the blaze and crackle 
of his red hair beneath was even more ferocious. 


124 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Yet he seemed intimidated by his companions, and 
kept silence, eating meekly from his knife, and 
spreading his napkin with care to the edge of his 
knees. 

The little man with warm black eyes and the 
colder, thinner man talked appreciatively together. 

“He! The pate is not bad.” 

“Not bad at all. And you haven’t tried the 
cheese?” 

“No, no. I never touch cheese before the wine; 
it ’s a sin. Now the bottle is all warmed. Try 
some.” 

“What is your father?” said the little man sud- 
denly to Fanny. 

“He is in the army.” 

“You have no brother — no one to take care of 
you?” 

“You mean, because I come out here? But in 
England they don’t mind; they think it interesting 
for us.” 

“Tiens!” 

They obviously did not believe her, and turned 
to other subjects. But the Bearskin began to move 
uncomfortably on the step of the car, and, bending 
forward to attract their attention, he burst out: 

“But, don’t you know, mademoiselle is not 
paid!” 


THE THREE “CLIENTS” 


125 


The others reconsidered her. 

“How do you live then, mademoiselle? You 
have means of your own? You do not buy your 
clothes yourself? Your Government gives you 
those, and that fine leather coat?” 

“I bought it myself,” said Fanny, and caused a 
sensation. 

Immediately they put out their delicate hands, 
and fingers that loved to appraise, to feel the leather 
on the lapel. 

“How soft! We have no leather now like that 
in France! How much did that cost? No, let me 
guess! You never paid a sou less than — Well, 
how much?” 

The Bearskin, who had sat beside her all the 
morning, and had now turned her into an object 
of interest, took a pride in Fanny. 

“The English upbringing is very interesting,” 
he said, pushing back his cap and letting out the 
flame of his hair. “The young ladies become very 
serious. I have been in England. I have been in 
Balham.” 

But though, owing to the leather coat, the others 
seemed to consider that they had an heiress amongst 
them, they would not let the big Bearskin be her 
impressario or their instructor. 

“Divorce is very easy in England,” said the thin 


126 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


man solemnly, and turned his shoulder slightly on 
the Bearskin, as though he blamed him for his stay 
in Balham. 

When the lunch was over and the last fragment 
of pate drawn off the last knife upon the crust of 
bread that remained, Fanny’s restless hopes turned 
towards packing up; but she counted without the 
white wine and the national repose after the midday 
meal. They washed their cups with care under 
the outlet tap of the radiator, and, wiping them 
dry to the last corner, sat back under the hedge to 
drink slowly. 

All this time a peculiar quality had been drawing 
across the sun. It grew redder and duller, till, 
blushing, it died out, and Fanny saw that the morn- 
ing frost had disappeared. Out to the left a 
mauve bank of cloud moved up across the sky like 
the smoke from a titanic bonfire, and, with the first 
drift of moisture towards them, the four shivered 
and rose simultaneously to pack the things and 
put them in the car. 

As Fanny stooped to wind up the handle the 
first snowflake, soft and wet and heavy, melted on 
her ear. 

“It won’t lie,” said the Bearskin. “Shall we 
draw up the hood?” 


THE THREE “CLIENTS” 


127 


They drew it up, but the thin man, huddling 
himself in the comer of the back seat, insisted 
on “side-curtains as well.” 

“Then I ’m sorry. Will you get out? They are 
under the seat.” 

“Oh, never mind, my dear fellow,” said Black- 
berry-Eyes. 

“No, no. One ought to keep the warmth of food 
within one.” 

And the other got out, and stood shivering while 
the Bearskin and Fanny pulled rugs and baskets and 
cushions out into the road that they might lift the 
back seat and find the curtains. 

‘‘Oh, how torn!” exclaimed the thin man bit- 
terly, as he saw her drape the car with leather cur- 
tains whose windows of mica had long since been 
cracked and torn away. The snow was hissing 
on the radiator and melting on the road, and there 
seemed no wind left anywhere to drive the weight 
of the mauve cloud further across the sky. It 
hung solid and low above them, so that between 
the surface of the earth and the floor of the sky 
there was only a foggy tunnel in which the road 
could be seen a few yards ahead. 

As they drove forward, the wind screen became 
filmed with melting snow. Fanny unscrewed it 


128 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


and tilted it open, and the Bearskin fumbled un- 
happily at his collar to close every chink and 
cranny in his mossy hide. 

They were climbing higher and higher across 
an endless plateau, and at last a voice called from 
the back, “We must look at the map.” It was a 
voice of doubt and distrust that any road could be 
the right road which held so much discomfort. 

Fanny stopped and pulled her map from behind 
her back, where she was keeping it dry. “It ’s all 
right,” she showed them, leaning over the back and 
holding the map towards them. Then she discov- 
ered that the back seat was empty, and her clients 
were huddled among the petrol tins and rugs upon 
the floor. 

“You must be miserable! It ’s So much colder 
in the back. See, here’s the big road that we must 
avoid, going off into Luxembourg, and here ’s ours, 
running down hill in another mile.” 

They believed her, being too cramped and miser- 
able to take more than a querulous interest. In 
another half-hour the snow ceased, and as they 
glided down the long hill on the other side of the 
plateau in a bed of fresh, unruffled wool, the sun 
struck out with a suddenness that Seemed to tear 
the sky in two, and turned the blue snow into a 
sheet of light which stretched far below them into 


THE THREE ‘^CLIENTS’’ 


129 


a wooded country. Pine woods stood below whose 
pits of shadow were too deep for the snow to whiten 
them. Down, down they ran, till just below lay 
a village — if village it was when only a house or 
two were gathered together for company in this 
forest. 

The snow seemed to have lain here for days, 
for the car slipped and skidded at the steep en- 
trance, where the boys of the village had made 
slides for their toboggans. A hundred feet from 
the first house a triumphal arch was built of pine 
and laurel across the road. On it was written in 
white letters ‘^Soyez le Bienvenue.” All the white 
poor houses glittered in the snow with flags. 

A stream crossed the village street, and a file 
of geese on its narrow bridge brought her to a 
standstill. 

‘‘What are the flags for?” she asked of an old 
man, pressing back into a safety alcove in the 
stone wall of the bridge. 

“We expect Petain here to-day. He is coming 
to Thionville.” 

“But Thionville is forty miles away — ” 

“Still, he might pass here — ” 

Running on and on through forest and hilly 
country, they left the snow behind them, and 
slipped down into greener valleys, till at last they 


130 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


came upon a single American sentry, and over his 
head was chalked upon a board: “This is Ger- 
many.” 

They pulled up. Germany it might be — but the 
road to Treves? He did not know; he knew noth- 
ing, except that with his left foot he stood in Ger- 
many, and with his right in France. 


CHAPTER VIII 


GERMANY 

O VER the side of the next mountain all Hans 
Andersen was stretched before them — tracts 
of little country, little wooden houses with pointed 
roofs, little hills, covered with squares of different ♦ 
colored woods, and a blue river at the bottom of the 
valley, white with geese upon its banks. They held 
their open mouths insultedly in the air as the motor 
passed. The narrow road became like marble, 
and the car hissed like a glass ball rolled on a 
stone step. On every little hill stood a castle made 
of brown chocolate, very small, but complete with 
turrets. Young horses with fat stomachs and 
arched necks bolted sideways off the road in fear, 
followed by gaily painted lattice-work carts, and 
plunged far into the grassland at the side. Old 
women with colored hoods swore at them, and 
pulled the reins. Many pointed hills were gray 
with vine-sticks, and on the crest of each of these 
stood a small chapel as if to bless the wine. The 
countryside was wet and fresh — white, hardly yel- 
low — with the winter sun; moss by the roadside 
131 


132 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


still dripped from the night, and small bare orchard 
trees stood in brilliant grass. 

“Look! How the grass grows in Germany!” 

“Ah, it does n’t grow like that in the valley of 
the Meuse — ” 

Every cottage in every village was different; 
many wore hats instead of roofs, wooden things 
like steeples, with deep eaves and carved fringes, 
in which were shadowy windows like old eyes. 
Some were pink and some were yellow. 

Soon they left the woods and came out upon an 
open plateau surrounded by wavy hills with castles 
on them. In the middle of the plateau was a Zep- 
pelin shed which looked like the work of bigger 
men than the crawling peasants in the roads. One 
side of the shed was open, and the strange preda- 
tory bird within, insensible to the peering eye of 
an enemy, seemed lost in thought in this green val- 
ley. The camp of huts beside it was deserted, and 
there seemed to exist no hand to close the house 
door. They rose again on to a hillside, and on 
every horizon shone a far blue forest faint like sea 
or cloud. 

Nearer Treves the villages were filled with Amer- 
icans — Americans mending the already perfect 
roads, and playing with the children. 


GERMANY 


133 


“This is a topsy-turvy country, as it would be 
in Hans Andersen,” thought Fanny. “I thought 
the Germans had to mend the broken roads in 
France!” 

They stayed that night in the Porta-Nigra hotel, 
which had been turned into an Allied hostel. The 
mess downstairs was chiefly filled with American 
officers, though a few Frenchmen sat together in 
one corner. The food was American — com cakes, 
syrup, and white, flaky bread. 

“Well, what bread! It’s like cake!” 

“Oh, the Americans eat well!” 

“I don’t agree with you. They put money into 
their food, and eat a lot of it, but they can’t cook.” 

“Is n’t it astonishing what they eat! It ’s 
astonishing what all the armies eat, compared with 
our soldiers.” 

“Now this cake-bread! I should soon sicken of 
it. But they will eat sweets and such things all 
day long.” 

“Well, I told you they are children!” 

“The Americans here seem different. They 
behave better than those in France.” 

“These are very chics types. Pershing is here. 
This is the Headquarters Staff.” 

“Yes, one can see they are different.” 


134 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘Tt appears they get on very well with the Ger- 
mans.” 

^‘Hsh— not so loud.” 

After dinner they strolled out into the town. 
The Bearskin was very anxious to get a ‘‘genuine 
iron cross.” 

He was offered iron crosses worked on match- 
boxes, on cigarette lighters, on ladies’ chains. 

“But are they genuine?” 

He did not know quite what he meant. 

“I don’t suppose them to be taken from a dead 
man’s neck, but are they genuine?” 

In the streets the Germans sold iron crosses from 
job lots on barrows for ten francs each. 

“But I will get one cheaper!” said the Bearskin, 
and clambered up the steps into shop after shop. 
He found an iron cross on a chain for seven francs. 
No one knew what the mark was worth, and the 
three men, with the German salesman, bent over 
the counter adding and subtracting on paper. 

“How can a goblin countryside breed people who 
sell iron crosses at ten francs each?” wondered 
Fanny. 

There was a notice on the other side of the street, 
“Y. M. C. A., two doors down the street on your 
left,” and the thin man stood in the door of the 
shop beside Fanny and pointed to it. 


GERMANY 


135 


‘‘Could n’t you go there and get me cigars? 
They will be very cheap. Have you money with 
you?” 

“I T1 try,” said Fanny, “I ’ve money. We can 
settle afterwards,” inwardly resolving to get as 
many cigarettes as she could to take back for the 
men in the garage. She crossed the street, but 
looked back to find the thin man creeping after 
her. She waited for him irritated. 

“Go back. If the American salesman sees you 
he T1 know it ’s for the French, and he won’t sell.” 

“Tiens?” 

“He knew that quite well,” she thought im- 
patiently to herself, “or he would n’t have asked 
me to buy for him.” 

The thin man turned back to the cover of the 
shop like an eager little dog which has jumped too 
quickly for biscuit and been snubbed. 

She went down the street and into the Y. M. C. A. 

Instantly she was among three or four hundred 
men, who stood with their backs to her, in queues 
up the long wooden hall. Far ahead on the im- 
provised counter was a guichet marked “Cigars.” 
She placed herself at the tail of that queue. 

“Move up, lady,” said the man in front of her, 
moving her forward. “Say, here ’s a lady. Move 
her up.” 


136 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Men from the other queues looked round, and 
one or two whistled slyly beneath their breath, but 
her own queue adopted her protectingly, and moved 
her up to their head, against the counter. 

It was out of the question to get cigars now. 
She had become a guest, and to get cigars would 
imply that she was not buying for herself, but to 
supply an unknown man without. And the marks 
on her uniform showed that the unknown was 
French. 

“One carton of Camels, please,” she §aid, used 
to the phraseology. 

“Take two if you like,” said the salesman. 
“We ’ve just got a dump in.” 

She took two long cardboard packets of ciga- 
rettes, and put down ten francs. 

“Only marks taken here,” Said the salesman. 
“You got to make the change as you come in.” 
“Oh, well— I Tl— ” 

“Put it down. Put it here. We don’t get a lady 
in every day.” 

He gave her the change in marks, which seemed 
countless. 

“I ’m sure you ’ve given me too much!” 

“Oh no. Marks is goin’ just for love in this 
country. Makes you feel rich!” 

As she emerged from the hall with her two long 


GERMANY 


137 


cartons under her arm she found the thin man, the 
Bearkskin and Blackberry-Eyes standing like chil- 
dren on the doorstep. 

It was too much — to give her away like that. 

Other Americans, coming out, looked at them 
as a gentleman coming out of his own house might 
look at a party of penguins on his doorstep. 

Fanny swept past her friends without a glance 
and walked on up the street with her head in the 
air. They turned and came after her guiltily. 
When they caught her up in the next street, she said 
to the thin man, ‘T asked you not to come near 
while I was buying — ” 

‘^Have you got cigars, mademoiselle?” 

‘‘No, I could n’t. Why did you come like that? 
Now I can go in no more. You ’d only to wait 
two minutes.” 

They looked crestfallen, while she held the ciga- 
rettes away from them as a nurse holds sweets from 
a naughty child. 

“I could only get two packets. I can give you 
one. I ’m sorry, but I promised to get cigarettes 
for some people in Metz.” 

The thin man brightened, and took the big carton 
of Camels with delight. 

“They ’re good, those!” he said knowingly to the 
others. “How much were they, mademoiselle?” 


138 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Five francs twenty the carton.” 

“Is it possible? And we have to pay . . •” 

By his tone he made it seem a reflection on the 
Americans. Why should a country be so rich 
when his had been so devastated, so thinned, so 
difficult to live in? Fanny thought of the poor hud- 
dled clients who had sat on the floor of the car dur- 
ing the snowstorm. It had been a bitter journey 
for them. One came from Rheims, too, she had 
heard him say. 

After all, those rich, those pink and happy 
Americans, leather-coated down to the humblest 
private, pockets full of money, and fat meals three 
times a day to keep their spirits up; why should n’t 
they let him have their cigarettes? 

“You can have this carton, too, if you like,” she 
said, offering it. “I ’ll manage to slip in to-mor- 
row morning.” 

He thanked her, delighted, and they went back 
to the hotel. 

The problem of the kindness of the Americans, 
and her frequent abuse of it to benefit the French, 
puzzled her. 

“But, after all, it ’s very easy to be kind. It ’s 
much easier to be kind if you are American and 
pink than if you are French and anxious,” she 
thought. 


GERMANY 139 

Another difference between the two nations struck 
her. 

‘^The Americans treat me as if I were an amus- 
ing child. The French, no matter how peculiar 
their advances, always, always as a woman.” 

Next morning, when she got down to breakfast 
at eight, she found that the three Frenchmen had 
already gone out about their work. 

“Perhaps I shall get home to-night, after all,” 
she prayed. She sat in the hotel and watched the 
Americans, or wandered about the little town until 
eleven. The affair with the cigars was suitably 
arranged. The hall was nearly empty when she 
went in, and the few men who stood about in it did 
not disarm her with special kindness. On getting 
back to the hotel she found the Bearskin pushing 
breathlessly and anxiously through the glass doors. 

“Monsieur Raudel has left his cigarettes in his 
bedroom,” he said, “unlocked up. He is anxious, 
so I have come back.” 

“Well, tell him that if he — tell him quite as a 
joke, you know — that if I can get home — ” 
(Something in his little blue eye shone sympa- 
thetically, and she leaned towards him.) “Well, 
I ’ll tell youl There is a dance to-night in Metz, 
and I am asked. And tell him that I have bought 
two boxes of cigars for him!” 


140 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

The Bearskin, enchanted, promised to do his 
best. 

By half-past twelve the three were back at lunch 
in the hotel. Over the coffee Monsieur Raudel 
looked reflectively at his well-shaped nails. 

“Well, mademoiselle, so this is what it is to have 
a woman chauffeur — ” 

Fanny looked up nervously, regretting her con- 
fidence in the Bearskin. 

“Apart from the pleasure of your company with 
us, we get cheap cigars, and you get your dance, 
so every one is pleased.” 

“Oh!” She was radiant. “But you haven’t 
hurried too much? Are we really starting back?” 

Monsieur Raudel, who was a new man when he 
was n’t cold, reassured her, and soon they were all 
packed in the Renault, and running out of Treves. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE CRINOLINE 

T hat same night as dusk fell she shook the 
snow from her feet and clothes and entered 
the dressmaker’s kitchen. Four candles were burn- 
ing beside the gas, and the tea-cups lay heaped and 
unwashed upon the dresser. 

‘‘Good-evening, good-evening,” murmured a 
number of voices, German and French, and the 
old dressmaker, standing up, her face haggard 
under the gas, took both Fanny hands with a 
whimper: 

“It will never be done! Oh, dear child, it will 
never be done!” 

The crinoline which they were preparing lay in 
white rags upon the table. 

“Oh, Elsa, that is,good! Are you helping too?” 
Elsa had brought three of her friends with her, and 
the four bright, bulletty heads bent over the long 
frills which moved slowly through their sewing fin- 
gers. “GoocJ conquered children!” They were 
sewing like little machines. 

“The Fraulein Schneiderin,” explained Elsa, “is 
so upset.” 


141 


142 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


And this was evident and needed no explaining. 
The little lady twisted her fingers, grieved and 
scolded, snatching at this and that, and rapping 
with her scissors upon the table as though she were 
going to wear the dress herself. 

'‘^Mademoiselle, I had to get them.” She 
nodded towards the busy conquered children, apol- 
ogizing for them as though she feared Fanny might 
think she had done a deal with the devil for her 
sake. 

‘‘Here are my frills,” said Fanny, bringing 
from her pocket two paper parcels, one of which 
she laid in mystery on the table, the other opened 
and shook out her two long frills. She drew off 
her leather coat and sat down to sew. 

“Oh, how calm you are!” burst out the dress- 
maker. “How can you be so calm? It won’t be 
finished.” 

“Yes, yes, yes. It ’s only half -past five. Can 
I have a needle?” 

“My mother had a dress like this before the last 
war.” (This for the fiftieth time.) “And will 
your amour eux be there?” she asked with the 
license of the old. 

“Well, yes,” said Fanny, smiling, “he will.” 

“And what will he wear?” 

“Oh, it ’s a secret. I don’t know. But I chose 


THE CRINOLINE 


143 


this particular dress because it is so feminine, and 
it will he the first time he has seen me in the clothes 
of a woman.” 

‘‘Children, hurry, hurry!” cried the dressmaker, 
in a frenzy of sympathy. “Minette, get down!” 
She slapped the gray cat tenderly as she lifted him 
off the table. “Tell them in their language to 
hurry!” she exclaimed. “/ never learnt it!” 

But, after the breath of excitement, followed her 
poor despair, and she dropped her hands in her 
lap. “It will never be done. I can’t do it.” 

‘Took, my dear, courage! The bodice is al- 
ready done . . . Have you eaten any tea?” 

“The children ate. I could n’t. I am too ex- 
cited. But you are so clam. You have no nerves. 
It isn’t natural!” 

Yet she ate a little piece of cake, scolding the 
cat and the children with her mouth full, prowling 
restlessly above their bent heads as they sewed and 
solidly sewed. 

At the end of an hour and a half the nine frills 
were on the skirt, the long hpops of wire had been 
run in, and the hooks and eyes on the belt. 

Often the door opened and shut; visitors came 
and went in the room; the milkwoman put her head 
In, crying: “What a party!” and left the tiny can 
of milk upon the floor: Elsa’s mother came to call 


144 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


her daughter to supper, but let her stay when she 
saw the dress still unfinished. Now and then some 
one would run out of the flat opposite, the flat above 
or the flat next door and, popping a head in at 
the door, wish them good luck. All the building 
seemed to know of the crinoline that was being 
made in the kitchen. 

“You do not smoke a pipe? . . said the dress- 
maker softly, with appreciation. 

“But none of us do!” 

“Oh, pardon, yes! I saw it yesterday. A 
great big girl dressed like you with her hands in 
her pockets and a pipe in her mouth. It made an 
effect on me — you can hardly believe how it star- 
tled me! I called Madame Coppet to see.” 

“I know it wasn’t one of us. And (it seems 
rude of me to say so) I even think the woman you 
saw was French.” 

“Oh, my dear, French women never do that!” 

“Well, they do when they get free. They go 
beyond us in freedom when they get it. The 
woman you saw (I have seen her, too) works with 
the men, shoulder to shoulder, eats with them, 
smokes with them, drinks with them, drives all 
night and all day, and they say she can change a 
tire in two minutes. 

“There was a woman, too, who drove a lorry be- 


THE CRINOLINE 


145 


tween Verdun and Bar-le-Duc, not a tender, you 
know, but a big lorry. She wore a bit of old 
ermine round her neck, knickerbockers, and yellow 
check stockings. One could imagine she had 
painted her face by the light of a candle at four 
in the morning. She never wore a hat, and her 
short yellow hair stuck out over her face which 
was as bright as a pink lamp shade.” 

^Terrible!” 

“She may have been, but she worked hard! 
She was always on that road. Or she would dis- 
appear for days with her lorry and come back 
caked in rouge and mud. I wish I could have got 
to know her and heard where she went and the 
things that happened to her.” 

“But, my dear, I keep thinking what a strange 
life it is for you. Are you always alone on your 
car?” 

“Always alone.” 

“You are with men alone then all the time?” 

“All the time.” 

“Well, it ’s more than I can understand. It ’s 
part of the war.” 

Elsa bent across the table and picked up the 
folded bodice, murmuring that it was done. The 
dressmaker rose, and reaching for the hooped 
skirt, held it up between her two arms. It was a 


146 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


thrilling moment. Fanny, too, rose. ‘Tut it on 
a dummy,” she commanded. Candles were placed 
around the dummy, who seemed to step forward 
out of the shades of the kitchen, and offer its head- 
less body to be hooked and buttoned into the dress. 
All the room stood back to look and admire. “Wie 
schon!” said Elsa’s shiny-headed friends, peering 
with their mouths open. 

“Ah, dear child, you were so clam, and now it 
is done!” said the old dressmaker. 

The dress stood stiffly glittering at them, white 
as snow, the nine frills pricking away from the 
great hooped skirt. 

Fanny picked up the brown paper parcel she 
had laid on the dresser, taking from it a bottle of 
blue ink, a bottle of green, and a paint brush, and 
diluted the inks in a saucer under the tap. There 
was awe in the kitchen as she held the brush, filled 
with color, in the air, and began to paint blue 
flowers on the dress. 

At the first touch of the brush the old dress- 
maker clasped her hands. “What is she doing, 
the English girl! And we who have kept it so 
white . . .” 

“Hush,” said Fanny, stooping towards the 
bodice, “trust me!” 

The children held their breath, except Elsa, who 


THE CRINOLINE 


147 


breathed so hard that Fanny felt her hair stir on 
her neck. She covered the plain, tight-waisted 
bodice with dancing flowers in blue and green. 

On the frills of the skirt a dozen large flowers 
were painted as though fallen from the bodice.. 
Soon it was done. 

^‘Like that! In five minutes!” groaned the 
dressmaker, troubled by the peculiar growth of the 
flowers. 

“Let it dry,” said Fanny. “I T1 go home and 
start doing my hair. Elsa will bring it round 
when it ’s dry.” 

The old woman held out both her hands, in a 
gesture of mute congratulation and fatigue. 

“Now rest,” said Fanny. “Now sleep — and in 
the morning I will come and tell you all about it,” 
and ran out into the snow. 

The top hook of the bodice would not meet. 
With her heart in her mouth, with despair, she 
pulled. Then sat down on the bed and stared 
blankly before her. 

“Then if that won’t meet, all, all the dress is 
wasted. I can’t go. No, right in the front! 
There is nothing to be done, nothing to be done!” 
She sat alone in the room, the five candles she had 
lighted guttering and spilling wax. She was in 


148 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the half-fastened painted bodice and a fine net pet- 
ticoat she had bought at Nancy. Even the green 
silk bedroom slippers were on, tied round her 
ankles with ribbons, the only slippers she had 
__found in Metz, and she had searched for them for 
hours. 

The room was icy cold, and the hand of the 
clock chasing towards the hour for the dance. 
Should she go in uniform? Not for the world. 

She would not meet him, and it seemed as though 
there could be no to-morrow, and she would never 
meet him again in this world. This meeting had 
had a peculiar significance — the flouncy, painted 
dress, the plans she had made to meet him for once 
as a woman. Shivering, and in absurd anguish she 
sat still on the bed. 

“Oh, Elsa, Elsa, look!” Better the child than 
no one, and the shiny head was hanging round the 
door. (“Wie schdnl”) 

“But it is n’t scAdn.' Look! It won’t meet!” 

“Oh! . . .” Elsa’s eyes grew round with hor- 
ror, and she went to fetch her mother. “Tanzen!” 
They talked so much of “tanzen” in that household. 
The thin mother was all sympathy, and stood in 
helpless sorrow before the gap in the bodice. 

“What’s all this?” and der Voter stood in the 
doorway, heavy as lead, and red as a plum. 


THE CRINOLINE 


149 


‘^Giver her a bunch of flowers,” he said simply, 
and as if by accident, and ‘^Oh! . . said Elsa’s 
mother, and disappeared. She came back with 
three blue cotton cornflowers out of Elsa’s hat, and 
the gap in the bodice was hidden. 

He was not there. Her eyes flew round the 
room, searching the shadows in the corners, search- 
ing the faces. In the bitterness of dismay she 
could not fully enter the door, but stood a little 
back, blocking the entrance, afraid of the certainty 
which was ready for her within; but others, less 
eager, and more hurried, pressed her on, drove her 
into the center of the room, and with a voice of 
excitement and distress chattering within her, like 
^ome one who has mislaid all he has, she shook 
hands with the eighteenth-century general who 
shrouded the personality of the Commandant Dor- 
mans. 

At first she could not recognize any one as she 
looked round upon Turks, clowns, Indians, the 
tinseled, sequined, beaded, ragged flutter of the 
room; then from the colored and composite cloth- 
ing of a footballer, clown or jockey grinned the 
round face and owlish eyes of little Duval, who 
flew to her at once to whisper compliments and 
stumble on the swelling fortress of her white skirt. 


150 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


She realized dimly from him that her dress was as 
beautiful as she had hoped it might be, but what 
was the use of its beauty if Julien should be miss- 
ing? And, looking over Duval’s head, she tried 
to see through the crowd. 

Suddenly she saw him, dressed in the white uni- 
form of a Russian, standing by a buttress of the 
wall. His uniform had a faint yellowish color, as 
if it had been laid away for many years against 
this evening’s dance; the light caught his knees 
and long boots, but the shadow of the buttress crept 
over his face, turned from her towards a further 
door. On his head he wore a tall white hat of 
curling sheep’s wool, which made him seem fan- 
tastically tall. 

When Fanny had surveyed him, from the tip of 
his lit hat to his lit feet, she was content to 
leave him in his shadowed corner, and turned will- 
ingly to dance with Duval The little man offered 
an arm to hold her, and, as he came nearer to her, 
his feet pressed the bottom ring of wire about her 
skirt, and the whole bell of flowers and frills 
swung backwards and stood out obliquely behind 
her. 

Presently the Jew boy, Reherry, detached him- 
self from the others and came out to stand by her 
and flatter her. He had wound the black stuff that 


THE CRINOLINE 


151 


he had bought three days before so cleverly round 
his slim body that he seemed no fatter than a lac- 
quered hairpin. The cynical flattery of the nine- 
teen -year-old Jew, the plunging admiration which 
Duval breathed at her side, the attentive look in the 
bright eyes of the Commandant Dormans, who had 
come near them and stood before her, filled her 
with joy. She looked about her, bright rat, tiny 
and enormous in her own sight, aware now of her 
outer, now of her inner life, and sipped her meed 
of success, full of the light happiness fashioned 
from the admiration of creatures no bigger than 
herself. She laughed at one and the other, bend- 
ing towards them, listening to what they had to say, 
without denying, without doubts, with only tri- 
umph in her heart; and, the group shifting a little, 
a voice was able to say secretly at her ear, “You 
look beautiful, but you are not exclusive . . .” 
Her sense of triumph was not dimmed because her 
quick ear caught jealousy shading the reproach in 
his voice. 

She did not answer him, except to look at him; 
but they seemed to forgive each other mutually as 
the figure of yellowish-white moved close enough to 
tilt the bell skirt and take the figure of bluish-white 
into his arms and dance with her. Calico and 
sheep’s wool and painted flowers went down the 


152 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


room under the low gas brackets, and her eyes, 
avoiding his, looked out from a little personal 
silence into the far-off whirl of the room, and heard 
the dimmed music and the scrape of feet. 

For him the world was a pale dumb-show, and 
she the absorbing center. For her the world with- 
out was lit equally with his personality, the glamour 
of which hung over all the scenes before her eyes 
with the weight of the sky over the land. So long 
as he lit the horizon the very furthest object in it 
wore a shaft of his light upon its body. 

They danced on, not wearing away the shining 
boards with their feet half so much as they wore 
away the thin ice above the enchanted lake. 

The Commandant Dormans crossed the room to 
them. 

‘‘She must be drawn. She must go for her por- 
trait. Spare me your partner. Mademoiselle, we 
have an artist, a poilu, drawing some of the dresses. 
Will you come with me and sit for yours?” 

She went into a little room and stood for the 
drawing; the door shut on her, and she and the 
artist faced each other. Through the door the 
music came softly, and as she stood, hands resting 
without a breath’s stir on fold, on frill, head bent 
and wandering eyes, the artist with twitching face 
and moving hand looked up and down, up and 


THE CRINOLINE 


153 


down, and she sank, swaying a little upon her 
rooted feet, into a hypnotized tranquillity. She 
did not care what the man put upon the white paper 
with his flying hands; he might draw the flowers 
upon her skirt, but not the tall blooming flowers 
within her, growing fabulously like the lilies in a 
dream. Her thoughts went out to meet the waves 
of music floating through the door; her rooted body 
held so still that she no longer felt it, and her spirit 
hung unbodied in an exaltation between love which 
she remembered and love which she expected. No 
one came through the door; they left her in silence, 
enclosed in the cell of the room and of her dreams, 
and she was content to stand without movement, 
without act or thought. The near chair, the wall 
hard by, the golden room which she had just left 
so suddenly were alike to her; her eyes and her 
imagination were tuned to the same level, and there 
was no distinction between what was on her horizon 
and beyond it. Across the face of the artist the 
scenes in the room behind her passed in unarrested 
procession, and the voice of an illusory lover in 
her ear startled her by its cleverness. The music 
wandered about the room like visible movement, 
and the artist, God bless him, never opened his 
mouth between his shower of tiny glances. 

‘Tinished, mademoiselle!” and he held the 


154 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


drawing towards her as he leant back with a sigh. 
He had made too many drawings that evening, and 
any talent he had hung in his mind as wearily as a 
flag in an airless room. With an effort she broke 
her position and moved towards him, taking up the 
drawing in her hand with a forced interest. ‘‘Yes, 
thank you, thank you,” she said, and he took it 
back and laid it with the pile he had made. “You 
don’t like it? But I ’m so tired. Look at these 
others I did earlier in the evening . . 

But while she bent over them the door burst open 
and Dormans came in, followed by Duval and 
Denis. “Is it finished? Let me look! Yes, yes, 
very good! Quite good!” They were pleased 
enough, and drew the artist away with them to the 
buffet. 

Suddenly Julien was with her and had closed the 
door. He was hurried, excited, and it seemed as 
though he said what he could no longer contain, as 
though the thought biggest in his mind broke in a 
bound from him. He was white and he exclaimed : 
“It ’s terrible how much you could hurt me if you 
would!” 

He seemed to close his eyes a little then and lean 
his head towards her. She looked at the drooping, 
half-lit head, and she knew that she had him with- 
out fear of escape. Knew, too, that the moment 


THE CRINOLINE 


155 


was brief. Their recent, undeclared silence 
brooded as though still with them, half regretful 
and departing angel. ‘‘You will have other beau- 
ties,” she said to her heart, “but none like this 
silence.” 

They were breathless. The ice had gone from 
the lake and the ship had not yet set sail. In a 
dreanx she moved down to the beach. She saw 
him open his eyes and stare at her incredulously. 
“I am going to break this beauty,” she breathed 
alone, and put out her hand and launched the 
ship. He was by her side, the silence broken, the 
voyage begun. 


CHAPTER X 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 

C LOUDS, yellow, mauve and blue, hung omi- 
nously over the road to Naney. The valley 
was filled with shades, but the road itself gleamed 
like a bleached bone in a ditch. Seated upon 
the dashboard of her wounded car, Fanny had 
drummed her heels for warmth since morning, and 
seemed likely soon to drum them upon a carpet of 
snow. Beneath the car a dark stream of oil 
marked the road, and oil still dripped from the 
differential case, where the back axle lay in two 
halves. 

“I will telephone to your garage,” her “client” 
had promised, as he climbed on to a passing lorry 
and continued his journey into Nancy. With that 
she had to be content, while she waited, first with- 
out her lunch, and then without her tea, for the 
breakdown lorry which his telephone message 
would eventually bring to her aid. Now it was 
nearly four o’clock. She had been hungry but was 
hungry no longer. The bitter cold made her fore- 
heard ache, and though every moment the blue and 

J56 

V. 




FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 157 


mauve shades thickened upon the sky no flake of 
snow had fallen. 

Only last night, only twenty-four hours ago, 
she had been preparing for the dance; and only 
last night she had said to Julien . . . What had 
she said to Julien? What had he said to her? 
Again she was deep in a reverie that had lasted all 
day, that had kept her warm, had fed her. 

She was almost asleep when a man’s voice woke 
her, and she found a car with three Americans 
drawn up beside her. 

“I guess this is too bad,” said the man who had 
awakened her. “We passed you this morning on 
our way into Nancy, and here you are still looking 
as though you had never moved. Ain’t you had 
any food since then?” 

“I have n’t been so very hungry.” 

“Not hungry? You ’re sure past being hungry! 
Lucky we ’ve got food with us in the car. Pity 
we ’ve got to hurry, but here ’s sandwiches and 
sandwiches, and cakes and candy, and bits of bun- 
stuff, and an apple. And here ’s a cheese that ’s 
running out of its wrappin’. When ’s your show 
coming to fetch you? Ain’t you coming home 
along with us?” 

“They won’t be long now. Oh, you are good 
. . .” Fanny’s hunger revived as she took the 


158 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


food, and now she was waiting ungratefully for 
them to be gone that she might start on her heaven- 
sent meal. 

‘‘Good-by, ma’am,” they cried together. 

“Good-by,” she waved, and as their car passed 
onwards she climbed up on to the mudguard and 
spread the rug over her knees. 

The slow night grew out of nothing, expanded, 
and nearly enveloped the slopes of the hill below. 
The wind dropped in the cloudy, heavy twilight, 
and the papers of the sandwiches did no more than 
rustle upon her knees. Not prepared yet to light 
her car lamps, Fanny laid her torch upon her lap, 
and its patch of white light lit her hands and the 
piles of bread, cake, and fancy buns. 

Across the road in the deeper gloom that dyed 
the valley and split over upon its banks, a head 
rustled in the ragged border of twig and reed, and 
eyes watched the brightly-lighted meal which 
seemed to hang suspended above the vague shape 
of the motor car. 

With a sense of being perfectly alone, walled 
round by the gathering dusk, Fanny made a deep 
inroad upon her sandwiches and cake, finishing 
with the apple, and began to roll up what remained 
in case of further need, should no one come to 
fetch her. 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 159 


She reflected that her torch would not last her 
long and that she ought to put it out and light her 
head and tail lamps instead, but, drowsy with pleas- 
ure in her lonely dinner, she sat on, prolonging the 
last moments before she must uncurl her feet and 
climb down on to the ground. The torch slipped 
from her knee on to a lower fold of the rug, light- 
ing only the corner of a packet in which she had 
rolled the cake. 

Suddenly, while she watched it, the gleam of 
the comer disappeared. She stared at the spot 
intensely, and saw a hand, a shade lighter than 
the darkness, travel across the surface of the rug, 
cover with its fingers the second parcel and draw 
it backwards into what had now become dense 
night. Her skin stirred as though a million an- 
tennae were alive upon it; she could not breathe lest 
any movement should fling the unknown upon her; 
her eyes were glued to the third packet, and, in a 
moment, the hand advanced again. With horror 
she saw it creep along the rug, a small, brown, 
fibrous hand, worn with work. The third packet 
was eclipsed by the fingers and receded as the 
others had done, but as it reached the edge of the 
rug, overflowing horror galvanized her into move- 
ment, and catching the comers of the mg, she threw 
it violently after the package and over the hand, 


160 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


at the same moment jumping from her seat and on 
to the footboard, to grope wildly for the switch. 
Her heart was leaping like a fish just flung into a 
basket, and every inch of her body winced from an 
expected grasp upon it. She flung herself over 
the side and into the seat of the car, found the 
switch and pushed it. 

A dozen Chinese at least were caught in the two 
long beams that flew out across the darkness. For 
a second their wrinkled faces stared, eyes blinked, 
and short, unhollowed lips stretched over yellow 
teeth, then, with a flutter of dark garments, the 
Chinese started away from the fixed beams and 
were gone into the shadow. Except for the sudden 
twitter of a voice, the spurt of a stone flung up 
against the metal of the car, they melted silently 
out of sight and hearing. Sick with panic, Fanny 
leant down upon her knees and covered her head 
with her two arms, expecting a blow from above. 
Seconds passed, and ice-cold, with one leg gone to 
sleep, she lifted her head and stared into the 
night. She could see nothing, and gradually be- 
coming accustomed to the darkness, she found that 
they had completely disappeared. The rug, too, 
had gone, and all three packets of sandwiches. 
Cautiously, with trembling legs, she stepped upon 
the footboard. 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 161 


Something hit her softly upon the forehead, but 
before she had time to suffer from a new fear her 
eye caught the glitter of a flake of snow in its para- 
chute descent across the path of her lamps. ‘^They 
hate snow . . she whispered, not knowing 
whether it was true. She tried to picture them as 
a band of workmen, who, content with their little 
pillage, were now far from her on their way to 
some encampment. 

Finding the torch still caught between the mud- 
guard and the bonnet, she prowled round the car, 
flashing it into comers and pits of darkness. 
There was no sign of a lurking face or flutter of 
garment. 

Snow began to fall, patting her noiselessly on 
her face and hands, and curling faster and faster 
across the lights. In twenty minutes the road 
around her was. lightened, and cones of delicate 
softness grew between the spokes of the wheels. 

Climbing down again from her perch, Fanny 
went to the back of the car, and, taking from be- 
neath the seat her box of tools, she groped in the 
hollow under the wood and pulled out an iron bar, 
stout and slightly bent, with a knob at one end — 
the handle of the wheel jack. 

Far away, in what seemed another world. 


162 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


equally blind, snowy and obscure, but divided 
from this one by fathoms of frozen water, a car 
was coming out from Pont-a-Moussons on to the 
main Nancy road. Its two head-lamps glowed con- 
fusedly under the snow that clung to them, and the 
driver, his thick, blue coat buttoned about his chin, 
leaned forward peering through the open wind 
screen, stung, blinded, and blinking as the flakes 
drove in. 

The head-lamps swept the road, the range of the 
beams reaching out and climbing the tree trunks in 
sheltered spots, or flung back and huddled about 
the front wheels when a blast of fresh snow was 
swept in from the open valley on the left. 

“We must be getting to Marbache?” 

“Hardly yet, mon capitaine. It was unlucky 
the brigadier should be at Thionville. I could 
have mended the spring on the lorry myself, but it 
wants two men to tow in the car.” 

“This is Marbache!” 

In the shelter of the hamlet the lights leapt for- 
ward and struck a handful of houses, thickened and 
rounded with snow. Almost immediately darkness 
swallowed them up, and a drift of snow flung up 
by the wind burst in powder over the bonnet and on 
to the glass. 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 163 


‘^The plain outside. Now we go down a long 
hill. We turn sharp to the right here.” 

The car entered a tunnel of skeleton trees 
through which the flakes drained and flickered, or 
broke in uneven gusts through the trunks. The 
left lamp touched a little wooden hut which stood 
blinkered and deserted. Just beyond it was a 
sharp turn in the road. 

‘mat’s that?” 

A pale light hung in the dark ahead of them. 

“Is it a car? No.” 

“Yes, lamps. With the beam broken by the 
snow.” 

“Go slow.” 

For fear of blinding the driver of a lighted vehi- 
cle which might, after all, be moving, one of the 
men put out his hand and switched off the head- 
lights, and the car glided forward on its own mo- 
mentum. 

Thus they came upon Fanny, in the hollow tom 
by the lamps out of an obscurity which whirled like 
a dense pillar above her, seated on her mudguard, 
blanched and still as an image, the iron bar for a 
weapon in her right hand, the torch ready as a sig- 
nal in her left. 

“Julien!” 


164 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Well, yes, my poor child!” And she saw the 
man behind him, and laughed. 

“Help me down. Within and without I am set 
in plaster.” 

“You look like a poor, weather-chipped goddess, 
or an old stone pillar with a face.” 

“Be careful, that leg will not stand. . . . Oh, 
look, look how the snow clings! It ’s frozen on 
my lap.” 

“We must be quick. Everything must be 
quickly done, or we shall all stay here.” 

“Oh, I don’t care about that now!” 

“What have you got in your hand? Give it to 
me.” 

“That’s a weapon. I almost needed it. Where 
is the lorry?” 

“The garage was empty. The brigadier was at 
Thionville. The lorry had a spring broken.” 

•“And they told you?” 

“I did not call at the ‘C. R. A.’ office till late in 
the day, or you would have been fetched long ago. 
Come along! Have you got your things together? 
We must take them back in the other car. And 
the magneto, too.” 

“We ’re to leave the car after all my guarding 
care?” 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 165 

‘‘No; here’s Pichot volunteered to take your 
place.” 

“Has he got food with him and rugs? My rug 
has gone . . 

“He has everything. Come along! Let ’s put 
everything of value into the other car.” 

. When they had finished the night air was clear 
of snowflakes; hill, road and valley were lit by the 
pallor of the fallen snow. 

Fanny followed Julien to the other car. He 
swung the handle and jumped into the driving 
seat. 

“Come . . .” he said, and held out a hand. 

“Good-night, Pichot. We’ll send for you early 
in the morning.” 

“Good-night, mon capitaine. Good-night, made- 
moiselle.” 

They moved forward, and the moon like a wan- 
dering lamp lit their faces. 

“Blow out, old moon!” said Julien, turning his 
silvered face and hair up to the sky. The moon 
flew behind a cloud. 

“Quick!” he said. 

“What?” 

... He kissed her. The jacks and tires and 
wheels and bolts fluttered out of Fanny’s head like 


166 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


black ravens and disappeared. They flew on, 
over the bridge at Pont-a-Moussons, up the shining 
ruinous street. 

‘^Crouch lower!” said Julien. “If any one 
wanted to, they could count your eyelashes from 
the windows.” 

“Ah, yes, if there was any one to count . . .” 
She glanced up at the fragmentary pronged chim- 
neys, the dark, unstirring caves of brick. 

Soon the church clocks of Metz rang out, quar- 
reling, out of time with one another. 

“Do you know this is n’t going to last?” said 
Julien, suddenly, as if the clocks had reminded 
him. 

She turned swiftly towards him. 

“The Grand Quartier is moving?” 

“Ah, you knew? You had heard?” 

“No, no,” she shook her head. “But do you 
think I haven’t thought of it? I keep thinking, 
^We can’t stay here forever. Some end will 
come.’ And then — Ht will come this way. The 
Grand Quartier will go.’ ” 

“But you are going with ii.” 

“Julien! Is that true?” 

“Certain. It was settled to-day. We are ac- 
tually leaving in three days for Chantilly; and 
you, with all the garage, all the drivers, and the 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 167 


offices of the ‘C. R. A.’ are to be at Precy-sur-Oise, 
five miles away.” 

‘‘But you are at Precy, too?” 

“No, I have to be at Chantilly. And worse than 
that. . . . The bridge over the Oise at Precy is 
blown up and all cars have to come sixteen miles 
round to Chantilly by another bridge. I am in 
despair about it. I have tried every means to get 
Dormans to fix upon another village, but he is 
obstinate, and Precy it must be for you, and Chan- 
tilly for me. But don’t let ’s think of it now. 
Wait till you ’ve eaten and are warm, and we can 
plan. Here are the gates!” 

He handed out the paper pass as a red light 
waved to and fro upon the snow. First the Cus- 
toms-men, Germans still, in their ancient civic uni- 
form. “Nothing to declare?” Then the little sol- 
dier with the lantern in his hand: “Your pass, ma 
belief As he caught sight of Julien, “Pardon, 
mademoiselle!” Lastly, up the long road into the 
open square by the station, down the narrow street, 
splashing the melted snow-water against the shop 
windows, and under the shadow of the cathedral. 

“Put the car away and come and dine with me at 
Moitriers.” 

She looked at him astonished. “The car? 
whose car is it? Does it belong to our garage?” 


168 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“It will in future. It arrived last night, fresh 
from Versailles. I am arranging with Denis for 
you to take it over to-morrow.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “A beautiful Renault! A 
brand new Renault! . . .” 

He laughed. “Hurry, or you will faint with 
hunger. Put it away and come, just as you are, 
to Moitriers, up into the balcony. I am going 
there first to order a wonderful dinner.” 

In a quarter of an hour they were sitting behind 
the wooden balustrade of the balcony at Moitriers 
— the only diners on the little landing that over- 
hung the one fashionable restaurant in Metz. It 
was a quarter of nine; down below, the room, 
which was lined with mirrors set in gilt frames, 
was filled with light; knives and forks still tapped 
upon the plates, but the hour being late diners 
leaned across the strewn tablecloths and talked, or 
sat a little askew in their chairs and listened. A 
hum filled the warm air, and what was garish be- 
low, here, behind the balustrade, became filtered and 
strained to delicate streaks and bars of light which 
crossed and recrossed their cloth, their hands, their 
faces — what was noisy below was here no more 
than a soft insect bustle, a murmurous background 
to their talk. 

The door of the balcony opened behind them. 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 169 


and Madame Berthe, the proprietor herself, moved 
at their side; her old-fashioned body, shaped like 
an hour-glass, was clothed in rucked black silk, 
which flowed over her like a pigment; flowed from 
her chin to the floor, upon which it lay stiffly in 
hills and valleys of braided hem. Her gay gold 
tooth gleamed, and the gold in her ears wagged, as 
she fed them gently on omelette, chicken and 
tinned peas, and a souffle ice. 

They talked a little, sleepy after the wind, smil- 
ing at each other. 

“Don’t you want more light than that?” said 
Madame Berthe, coming in again softly with the 
coffee. 

Fanny shook her head. “Not any more than 
this.” 

Then they were left alone. Stirring the coffee, 
gazing down between the wooden columns at the 
diners below. 

“Of what are you thinking?” she asked, as a sigh 
escaped her companion. 

“The move to Chantilly. I am so loath to break 
up all this.” 

“Break up?” 

“Ah, well, it changes, does n’t it? Even if it is 
no longer the same landscape it changes!” 

After a silence he added: “How fragile it is!” 


170 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘mat?” 

“You!” He covered her hand with both his. 
“You! What I think you are, and what you think 
I am. Love and illusion. Too fragile to be given 
to us with our blunders and nonsense.” 

She watched him, silent, and he went on: 

“I don’t understand this life. That ’s why I 
keep quiet and smile, as you say I do. There are 
often things I don’t say when I smile.” 

“What things?” 

“Oh, I wonder how much you believe me. And 
I listen to that immense interior life, which talks 
such a different language. I hate to move on to 
Chantilly.” 

Suddenly she recognized that they were at a 
corner which he had wanted her to turn for days. 
There had been something he had hinted at, some- 
thing he wanted to tell her. He chafed at some 
knowledge he had which she did not share, which 
he wanted her to share. 

Once he had said: “I had letters this morning 
which worried me . . .” 

“Yes?” 

“One in particular. It hurt me. It gave me 
pain.” 

But she had not wanted to ask what was in the 
letter. Then he had grown restless, sighed and 


FANNY ROBBED AND RESCUED 171 


turned away, but soon they had talked again and 
it had passed. 

And now to-night he said: 

‘‘Look how detached we are in this town, which 
is like an island in the middle of the sea. We 
behave as though we had no past lives, and never 
expected any future. Especially you.” 

“Especially I?” 

“You behave as though I was born the day be- 
fore you met me, and would die the day after you 
leave me. You never ask anything about me; you 
tell me nothing about yourself. We might be a 
couple of stars hanging in mid air shining at each 
other. And then I have the feeling that one might 
drop and the other would n’t know where to look 
for it.” 

But after a little silence the truth burst out, and 
he said with despair: “Don’t you want to know 
anything about me?” 

(Yes, that was all very well. She did, she did. 
But not just this that was coming!) 

And then he told her . . . 

“What is she like?” 

“Fair.” 

After several low questions she seemed to stand 
between them like a child, thin and fair, delicate 


172 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

and silent, innocently expecting to be spared all 
pain. 

“No, she does n’t go out very much. She stays 
indoors and does her hair, and her nails, and reads 
a little book.” 

“And have you known her for a long time?” 

“A long time . . .” 

After this they pretended that she did not exist, 
and the little wraith floated back to Paris from 
which she had come, suddenly, on days when she 
had written him certa^in letters which had brought 
tears into his eyes. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ: THE JOURNEY 

F anny tumed to seek again the lights of the 
town and the dagger points of the churches 
that climbed against the sky upon the hill behind 
her, but all that met her eyes was the blanket of 
wet darkness, and the shimmer of the snowflakes 
under the lamp. 

She slipped through the garage gates, touching 
the iron bars . . . ‘‘almost for the last time.” 

“But what does it matter? All towns are the 
same and we sing the same song in each and wear 
the same colored feathers.” She stirred the snow 
in the yard with her foot. “An inch already and 
the Renault has so little grip upon the snow. Shall 
we be able to start to-morrow?” 

Then she set out to look for a heap of snow- 
chains which she had noticed before in a corner 
of the yard. Not far from her another little torch 
moved in the darkness, and under its downward ray 
she caught sight of a khaki skirt and a foot. 
“Some one else has thought of chains, too! And 

173 


174 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


there are so few!” She clicked off her light and 
moved stealthily along the forest of cars, her fin- 
gers sweeping blankets of snow from the mud- 
guards. Passing the first line of corpse-cars she 
saw the little light again. “She ’s in the wrong 
place!” she thought, and hurried on. “Those bags 
of chains are just behind the Berliet they brought 
in backwards.” Behind the Berliet little mounds 
showed in the snow. She stooped over them, shad- 
ing her light with her knees, and dug in the light 
powder with her hand, pulling out a small canvas 
bag which she dusted and beat with her fingers. 

“Are you looking for chains?” she called to the 
other light, her bag safely in her arms. 

“Yes.” 

“They are here. Here! In this comer!” 

“Who are you?” cried the voice. 

But she slipped away in silence to the garage 
door; for on this last black and white night in 
Metz she longed to creep about unspoken to, un- 
questioned. A little soldier sat on guard by a 
brazier of glowing charcoal near the door. She 
nodded to him as she moved down the long line of 
cars to her own. 

There it stood, the light of the brazier falling 
faintly upon it, the two points of the wind screen 
Standing up like the ready cars of an interested 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 175 


dog, the beautiful lines of its body, long bonnet 
and mudguards stretched like a greyhound at gal- 
lop, at rest until the dawn. She flung the bag of 
chains inside, and, patting the bonnet, slipped away 
and out into the street without attempting to try the 
fit of the chains upon the wheels. 

She slept a last night in the dark red German 
room three streets away — first making a little tour 
of the walls in her nightgown, the candle flame wav- 
ing from her hand, the hot wax running in a cas- 
cade over her fingers — and looked at the stag’s 
horn fastened to the bracket and the cluster of 
Christmas postcards pinned to the wall. 

The postcards arrested her attention, and a light 
darted in her mind. They were dark postcards, 
encrusted with shiny frosting, like the snow out- 
side. Little birds and goblins, a wreath of holly, 
and a house with red mica windows were designed 
on them. She put out a finger and gently touched 
the rough, bright, common stuff; standing opposite 
them, almost breathless with a wave of memory. 
She could see herself no taller than the nursery 
fireguard, with round eyes to which every bright 
thing was a desire. She could feel herself very 
small amid the bustle and clatter of Christmas, 
blowing dark breath marks against the bright silver 
on the table, pulling the fringe round the iced cake, 


176 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


wetting her finger and picking up “hundreds and 
thousands” with it from a bag. 

These postcards now in front of her were made 
by some one with the mind of a child. It struck 
and shook her violently with memory to see them. 
“That ’s why the Germans write good fairy stories!” 
she thought, and her eyes passed to the framed 
photographs that hung near the postcards, pictures 
of soldiers in uniform, sitting at a table with the 
two daughters of the house. But these wooden 
faces, these bodies pressing through unwieldly 
clothes, seemed unrelated to the childish postcards. 

She went contentedly to her bed, the room, bare 
of all her belongings, except the one bag that stood, 
filled and open, upon the table; sleeping for the 
last time in the strange bed in the strange town 
which she might never see again. It was time in- 
deed to go. 

For days past civilians had crept through the 
gates of Metz, leading old horses, drawing ram- 
shackle carts filled with mattresses, faded silk 
chairs, gilt ormolu stands, clocks and cloaks and 
parrot cages; all the strange things that men and 
women use for their lives. The furniture that 
had fled in other carts from villages now dust upon 
a dead plain was returning through all the roads 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 177 


of France, repacked and dusted, to set up the spirit 
of civilian life again. 

It was time to go, following all the other birds 
of passage that war had dragged through the town 
of Metz — time to make way for the toiling civilian 
with his impedimenta of civilization. 

In the morning when she opened her eyes the 
room was daricer than usual, and the opening of 
the window but the merest square of light. Snow 
was built up round the frame in thick rolls four 
inches high. 

She dressed hurriedly and rolled up the sleep- 
ing-sack with her few last things inside it. Out in 
the street the snow was dry and thick and beauti- 
fully untrodden. The garage gates looked strange, 
with a thick white banner blown down each side of 
the pillars. She looked inside the garage shed. 
Yes, all the cars had gone — ^hers stood alone, the 
suitcases inside, tires pumped stiff and solid, the 
hood well buckled back. 

“Mademoiselle has n’t gone in the convoy?” said 
the marechal des logis, aghast. 

“Oh, I ’m separate,” she laughed. 

“But the convoy is gone.” 

“I know it. But I ’m not with them. It ’s an 
order. I ’m going alone.” 


178 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


^‘Bien. But do you know the route?” 

’m not going by it.” 

He laughed, suddenly giving up all attempt at 
responsibility, and bent to catch her starting han- 
dle. 

‘‘Oh, don’t worry.” 

“Yes, it ’s your last day, I may as well help you 
to go away.” 

The engine started easily and she drove out of 
the garage into the yard, the wheels flying help- 
lessly in the snow, and flinging up dry puff’s like 
flour. “Have n’t you chains?” said the marechal 
des logis. But she smiled and nodded and could 
not wait. “Good-by — good-by to all the ga- 
rage,” she nodded and waved. The sun broke out 
from behind a cloud, her brass and glass caught 
fire and twinkled gaily, the snow sparkled, the 
gate-posts shone at her. She left the garage with- 
out a regret in her heart, with not a thought in her 
head, save that in a minute she would be safe, no 
accident could stop her, she would be abroad upon 
the magic, the unbelievable journey. 

They were in a small circular room, shaped like 
an English oasthouse, its roof running upwards in 
a funnel to meet the sky. At the apex was a small 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 179 


circuxar porthole of thick glass to let in the light, 
but as this was supporting several feet of snow the 
lighting of the room was effected only by a large 
oil-lamp which stood on the blackened table in the 
center. An old woman came forward into the 
light of the lamp. Her eyes were fine and black — 
her mouth was toothless and folded away forever, 
lost in a crevice under nose. When she smiled 
the oak-apples of her cheeks rose up and cut the 
black eyes into hoops. 

‘‘We are on a long journey, madame, to Chan- 
tilly. We are cold; can we have coffee?” 

She drew out chairs and bade them sit, then 
placed two tall glasses of coffee in the ring of 
light from the lamp, sugar melting in a sandy heap 
at the bottom of each. 

“What an odd shape your house is!” said Julien, 
looking round him. 

“It ’s very old, like me. And the light is poor. 
You have to know it to get used to it,” she replied. 

“You Ve only that one window?” He stared up 
the funnel to where he could see the gray underside 
of the cone of snow. 

“But I can make that one better than it is; and 
then the lady can see herself in this little glass!” 
The old woman moved to the side of the wall where 


180 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


a rope hung down. “Elle a raison: since she has a 
gentleman with her! I was the same — and even 
not so long ago!” 

She put up her thin arm and gave the rope a 
long pull. She must have been strong, for the 
skylight and all its burden opened on a hinge, and 
the snow could be seen sliding from it, could be 
heard in a heavy body rumbling on the roof. She 
closed the skylight, and now a wan light filtered 
down the funnel and turned their faces green. It 
was like life at the bottom of a well, and they felt 
as though the level of the earth was far above their 
heads, and its weighty walls pressing against their 
sides. 

“But why is it built this way?” 

“Many houses are,” said the old woman with a 
shrug. “It ’s old, older than my mother.” She 
sat down beside them. “Soldiers have been drunk 
in here many times in the war,” she said. “And in 
the old war, too. But I never saw one like you.” 
She pinched Fanny’s sleeve. “Fine stuff,” she 
said. “The Americans are rich!” 

“I ’m not American.” 

“Rich they are. But I don’t care for them. 
They have no real feeling for a woman. You are 
not stupid, ma belle, to get a Frenchman for a 
lover.” 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 181 


“Don’t make him vain.” 

“It is the truth. He knows it very well. Why 
should he be vain? An American loves a pretty 
face; but a Frenchman loves what is a woman.” 
She rose and lifted the lamp, and let its ray search 
out a comer of the room wherein the great bed 
stood, wooden and square, its posts black with age, 
its bedding puffed about it and crowned with a 
scarlet eiderdown as solid and deep as the bed it- 
self. 

“A fine bed; an old bed; it is possible that you 
will not believe me, but I shared that bed with a 
bishop not two years ago.” 

Fanny’s eyes were riveted on the bed. 

Julien laughed. “In the worst sense, mother?” 

“In the best, my son,” bragged the old woman, 
sliding a skinny finger to the tip of her nose. 
“You don’t believe me?” 

Coming nearer, she stood with the lamp held in 
her two hands resting on the table, so that she 
towered over them in fluttering shawl and shadow. 

“He arrived in the village one night in a great 
storm. It was past the New Year and soldiers had 
been coming through the street all day to go up to 
the lines beyond Pont-a-Moussons. I ’ve had them 
sleeping in here on the floor in rows, clearing away 
the table and lying from waU to wall so thick that 


182 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


I had to step on them when I crossed the room with 
my lamp. But that night there were none; they 
were all passing through up to the front lines, and 
though the other end of the village was full, no one 
knocked here. There was snow as there is to-day, 
but not lying still on the ground. It was rushing 
through the air and choking people and lying heavy 
on everything that moved outside. That glass of 
mine up there was too heavy for me to move so I 
let it be. A knock came at the door in the middle 
of the night, and when I got up to unbar the door 
there was a soldier on the doorstep. I said: ^Are 
you going to wake me up every night to fill the room 
with men?’ And he said: ‘Not to-night, mother, 
only one. Pass in, monsieur.’ 

“It was a bishop, as I told you. Un eveque. A 
great big man with a red face shining with the snow. 
If he had not been white with snow he would have 
been as black as a rook. He stamped on the cob- 
bles by the door and the snow went down off him in 
heaps, and there he was in his beautiful long 
clothes, and I said to myself : ‘Whatever shall I do 
with him? Not the floor for such a man!’ So 
there we were, I in my red shawl that hangs on the 
hook there, and he in his long clothes like a black 
baby in arms, and his big man’s face staring at me 
over the top. 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 183 


‘‘ T can’t put you anywhere but in my bed,’ I 
told him. I told him like that, quickly, that he 
might know. And he answered like a gentleman, 
the Lord save his soul: ^Madame, what lady could 
do more!’ 

‘But there ’s only one bed,’ I told him (I told 
him to make it clear), ‘and I ’m not young enough 
to sleep on the floor.’ Not that I ’m an old woman. 
And he answered like a gentleman, the Lord save 
him . . 

“I will tell you the end,” said the old woman, 
drawing near to Julien as he took some money from 
his pocket to pay for the coffee. 

Two hours later they drew up at a caje in the 
main square a Ligny. 

Within was a gentle murmur of voices, a smell 
of soup and baking bread; warm steam, the glow 
of oil lamps and reddened faces. 

Sitting at a small table with a white cloth, among 
the half-dozen American soldiers who, having long 
finished their lunch, were playing cards and domi- 
noes, they ordered bread-soup, an omelette, white 
wine, brille cheese and their own ration of bully 
beef which they had brought in tins to be fried with 
onions. 

A woman appeared from the door of the kitchen. 


184 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


carrying their bowl of bread-soup. Across the 
plains of her great chest shone a white satin waist- 
coat fastened with blue glass studs, and above her 
handsome face rose a crown of well-brushed hair 
dyed in two shades of scarlet. A little maid fol- 
lowed, and they covered the table with dishes, 
knives and forks, bread and wine. The woman 
beamed upon Fanny and Julien, and laying her 
hand upon Fanny’s shoulder begged them not to 
eat till she had fetched them a glass of her own 
wine. 

“You bet it ’s good, ma’am,” advised a big 
American sergeant at a table near them. “You 
take it.” 

She brought them a wine which shone like dark 
amber in a couple of glasses, and stood over them 
listening with pleasure to their appreciation while 
each slight movement of her shoulders sent ripples 
and rivers of heaving light over the waistcoat of 
satin. 

The butter round the omelette was bubbling in 
the dish, the brille had had its red rind removed 
and replaced by fried breadcrumbs, the white wine 
was light and sweet, and with the coffee afterwards 
they were given as much sugar as they wished. 

“I have seen her before somewhere,” said Julien, 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 185 


as the scarlet head receded among the shadows of 
the back room. “I wonder where?” 

“One would n’t forget her.” 

“No. It might have been in Paris; it might 
have been anywhere.” 

The little maid was at his elbow. “Madame 
would be glad if you would come to her store and 
make your choice of a cigar, monsieur.” 

“Well, I shall know where I met her. Do you 
mind if I go?” 

He followed the girl into the back room. Fanny, 
searching in her pocket for her handkerchief, scat- 
tered a couple of German iron pennies on the floor; 
an American from the table behind picked them 
up and returned them to her. “These things are 
just a weight and a trouble,” he said. “I think 
I shall throw mine away.” 

“You ’ve come down from Germany, then?” 

“Been up at Treves. They do you well up 
there.” 

“Not better than here!” 

“No, this is an exception. It ’s a good place.” 

“Madame is a great manager.” 

“Hev’ you got more German pennies than you 
know what to do with?” said the American ser- 
geant who had advised her to drink the wine. “Be- 


186 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


cause, if you hev’ so hev’ I and I ’ll play you at 
dominoes for them.” 

As Julien did not return at once, Fanny moved 
to his table and piled her German pennies beside 
her, and they picked out their dominoes from the 
pile. 

want to go home,” said the American, and 
lifted up his big face and looked at her. 

^Tou all do.” 

‘‘That ’s right. We all do,” assented another 
and another. They would make this statement to 
her at every village where she met them, in every 
estaminet, at any puncture on the road over which 
they helped her, simply, and because it was the 
only thing in their minds. 

“Do you hev’ to come out here?” he inquired. 

“Oh, no. We come because we like to.” 

Thinking this a trumpery remark he made no 
answer, but put out another domino — then as 
though something about her still intrigued his 
heavy curiosity: “You with the French, ain’t 
you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Like that too?” 

He sat a little back into his chair as though he 
felt he had put her in a corner now, and when 
she said she even liked that too, twitched his cheek 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 187 

a little in contempt for such a lie and went on play- 
ing. 

But the remark worked something in him, for 
five minutes later he pursued: 

‘T don’t see anything in the French. They 
ain’t clean. They ain’t generous. They ain’t up- 
to-date nor comfortable.” 

Fanny played out her domino. 

“They don’t know how to ZiVe,” he said more 
violently than he had spoken yet. 

“What ’s living?” she said quickly. “What is 
it to live, if you know?” 

“You want to put yourself at something, an’ 
build up. Build up your fortune and spread it 
out and about, and have your house so ’s people 
know you ’ve got it. I want to get home and be 
doing it.” 

“Mademoiselle actually knows it!” said Julien 
in the doorway to the red-haired woman in the 
back room, and Fanny jumped up. 

The Americans passed four iron coins across 
the table. “ ’T is n’t going to hinder that fortune 
I ’m going to make,” he said, smiling at last. 

“What do I know?” she asked, approaching the 
doorway, and moving with him into the back room. 

“Madame owns a house in Verdun,” said Julien, 
“and I tell her you know it.” 


188 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘7 know it?” 

“Come and drink this little glass of my wine, 
mademoiselle,” said the red-haired woman good- 
humoredly, “and tell me about my poor little house. 
I had a house on the crown of the hill . . , with a 
good view . . . and a good situation (she laughed) 
by the Cathedral.” 

“Had you? Well, there are a great many by 
the Cathedral,” Fanny answered cautiously, for she 
thought she knew the house that was meant. 

“But my house looked out on the citadelle, and 
stood very high on a rock. Below it there was a 
drop and steep steps went down to a street below.” 

“Had you pink curtains in the upper windows?” 

“Is it not then so damaged?” demanded the 
woman eagerly, dropping her smile. “The cur- 
tains are left; you can see the curtains?” 

“No, no, it is terribly damaged. If it is the 
house you mean I found a piece of pink satin and 
a curtain ring under a brick, and there is a sad 
piece which still waves on a high window. But 
wait a minute, excuse me, I ’ll be back.” She 
passed through the cafe and ran out to the car, 
returning in a moment with something in her hand. 

“I fear I looted your house, madame,” she said, 
offering her a small cylindrical pot made of coarse 
clouded glass, and half filled with a yellowish 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 189 


paste. ^‘I found that inside on the ground floor; 
I don’t know why I took it.” 

The woman held it in her hand. ^^Oh!” she 
wailed, and sliding down upon the sofa, found her 
handkerchief. 

^^Maise non!^^ said Julien, “you who have so 
much courage!” 

“But it was my own faceF^ she cried incoher- 
ently, holding out the little pot. “My poor little 
cream pot!” 

“What!” 

“It was my face cream!” 

“How strange!” 

“I had not used it for a week because they had 
recommended me a new one. Ah! miraculous! 
that so small a thing should follow me! I look 
on it with tenderness.” 

She touched her eyes carefully with her hand- 
kerchief, but a live tear had fallen on the waist- 
coat. 

“Tell me, mademoiselle ... sit down beside 
me, my dear . . . the poor little house is no more 
good to me? I could n’t live there? Is there a 
roof? 

“You could n’t live in it.” 

“But the roof?” 

“It was on the point of sliding off ; it was worn 


190 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


like a hat over one ear. The front of the house 
is gone. Only on the frame of one window which 
sticks to the wall could I see your piece of pink 
curtain which waves.” 

^‘My poor, pretty house!” she mused. ‘‘My first, 
you krrow,” she said in an undertone to Julien. 
“Ah, well, courage, as you say!” 

“But you are very well here.” 

‘"True, but this is n’t my vocation. I shall start 
again elsewhere. And Verdun itself, mademoi- 
selle, can one live in it?” 

“No, not yet. Perhaps never.” 

“Well, well . . .” 

“Madame, we must move on again,” interrupted 
Julien. “We have a long way to go before night.” 

The woman rose, and turning to a drawer^ pulled 
out a heap of soiled papers, bills and letters. 
“Wait,” she said, “wait an instant!” 

Turning them over she sought and found a 
couple of old sheets pinned together, and unpin- 
ning them she handed one to Fanny. 

“It is the receipt for the cream,” she said, “that 
I want to give you. It is a good cream though I 
left the pot behind.” 

The sun sank and the forests around Chantilly 
grew vague and deep. White statues stood by the 


THE LAST NIGHT IN METZ 191 


roadside, and among the trees chateaux with closed 
eyes slept through the winter. Every tree hung 
down beneath its load of snow; the telephone wires 
drooped like worsted threads across the road. 

Fanny, who had left Julien at his new billets in 
Chantilly, drove on alone to the little village on 
the Oise which was to be her home. It was not 
long before she could make out the posts and sig- 
nals of the railway on her left, and the river ap- 
peared in a broad band below her. The moon 
rose, and in the river the reeds hung head down- 
wards, staring up at the living reeds upon the bank. 

J ^Trecy.” 

It gleamed upon a signpost, and turning down 
a lane on the left she came on a handful of un- 
lighted cottages, and beyond them a single village 
street, soundless and asleep. A chemist’s shop 
full of colored glasses was lit from within by a 
single candle; upon the step the chemist stood, 
a skull cap above his large, pitted face. 

Somewhere in the shuttered village a roof al- 
ready sheltered her companions, but before look- 
ing for them she drew up and gazed out beyond 
the river and the railway line to where the moon 
was slowly lighting hill after hill. But the spectral 
summer town which she sought was veiled in the 
night. 

















PART III 

THE FORESTS OF CHANTILLY 





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II 




1 


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CHAPTER XII 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 

T he light of dawn touched Paris, the wastes of 
snow surrounding her, forests, villages scat- 
tered in the forest and plains around Senlis, Chan- 
tilly, Boran, Precy. The dark receded in the west; 
in the east a green light spread upwards from the 
horizon, touched the banks of the black Oise, the 
roofs of the houses of Precy, the dark window 
panes, and the flanks of the granite piers that stood 
beheaded in the water — all that was left of the 
great bridge that had crossed from bank to bank. 

Above the river stood the station hut and the 
wooden gates of the level crossing, upon which the 
night lantern still hung; above again a strip of 
snow divided the railway line from the road, at 
the other side of whose stone wall the village itself 
began, and stretched backwards up a hill. 

Upon a patch of snow above the river and below 
the road stood a flourishing little house covered 
with gables and turrets; and odd shapes like the 

newel-posts of staircases climbed unexpectedly 
195 


196 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


about the roof. In summer, fresh with paint, the 
outside of the house must wave its vulgar little 
hands into the sky, but now, everything that bris- 
tled upon it served only as a fresh support for the 
snow which hung in deep drifts on its roof, and 
around its balconied windows. It stood in its own 
symmetrical, walled garden, like a cup in a deep 
saucer, and within the wall a variety of humps and 
hillocks showed where the bushes crouched beneath 
their unusual blanket. One window, facing to- 
wards the railway and the river, had no balcony 
clinging to its stonework, and in the dark room 
behind it the light of the dawn pressed faintly be- 
tween the undrawn curtains. A figure stirred upon 
the bed within, and Fanny, not clearly aware 
whether she had slept or not, longed to search the 
room for some heavier covering which, warming 
her, would let her sink into unconsciousness. Her 
slowly gathering wits, together with the nagging 
cold, forced her at last from the high bed on to the 
floor, and she crossed the room towards the light. 
In the walled garden below strange lights of dawn 
played, red, green and amber, like a crop of flow- 
ers. The railway lines beyond the garden wall 
disappeared in fiery lines north and south, lights 
flashed down from the sky above and winked in 
the black and polished river; at the limit of the 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 197 

white plain beyond, a window caught the sun and 
turned its burning-glass upon the snow. 

‘‘Chantilly ...” A word like the dawn, filled 
with light and the promise of light! Turning back 
into the dim room, she flung her coat upon the bed, 
climbed in and fell asleep. Three hours later 
something pressed against her bed and she opened 
her eyes again. The room was fresh with daylight, 
and Stewart beside her on the floor carried a rug 
on her arm and wore a coat over her nightgown. 
“I ’m coming down to have chocolate in your 
room . . .” 

Fanny watched her. Stewart climbed up beside 
her wrapped in the rug. A knock at the door her- 
alded the entry of a woman carrying a tray. 
Fanny watched her too, and saw that she was fresh, 
smiling, clean and big, and that steam flew up in 
puff’s from the tray she carried. The woman 
pulled a little table towards the bed and set the 
tray on it. 

“This is Madame Boujan!” said StewartVvoice. 

Fanny tried to smile and say “Good morning,” 
and succeeded. She was not awake but knew she 
was in clover. The cups holding the steaming 
chocolate were as large as bowls, and painted cher- 
ries and leaves glistened beneath their luster sur- 
face. Beside the cups was a plate with rolls, four 


198 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


rolls; and there were knives and two big pots which 
must be butter and jam. 

^‘Wake up!” 

Fanny rolled nearer to the chocolate, sniffed it 
and pulled herself up in bed. The woman, still 
smiling beside them, turned and hunted among the 
clothes upon the chair; then held a jersey towards 
her shoulders and guided her arms into its sleeves. 
Ecstasy stole over Fanny; other similar wakings 
strung themselves like beads upon her memory; 
nursery wakings when her spirit had been guided 
into daylight by the crackle of a fire new-lit, by 
the movements of just such an aproned figure as 
this, by a smile on just such a pink face; or wak- 
ings after illness when her freshening life had leapt 
in her at the sound of a blind drawn up, at the 
sight of the white-cuffed hand that pulled the cord. 

Oh, heavenly woman, who stood beside the tray, 
who fed her and warmed her while she was yet 
weak and babyish from sleep! Beyond her the 
white plains of beauty shone outside the window 
. . . She sat up and smiled. ‘T ’m awake,” she 
said. 

And Madame Boujan, having seen that her feet 
were set upon the threshold of day, went out of the 
door and closed it softly. 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 199 

They held the luster bowls cupped in their hands 
and sipped. 

During lunch in the little villa, while they were 
all recounting their experiences, Madame Boujan 
came softly to Fanny’s side and whispered: 

“A soldier has brought you a note from Chan- 
tilly.” 

“Keep it for me in the kitchen,” Fanny an- 
swered, under her breath, helping herself to po- 
tatoes. 

“Will you come and cut wood for the bedroom 
fire?” said Stewart, when lunch was over. “I 
bought a hatchet in the village this morning.” 

“Come down by the river first,” insisted Fanny, 
who had her note in her hand. 

“Why? And it gets dark so soon!” 

“I want to find a boat.” 

“What for?” 

“To cross the river.” 

“To cross the river! Do you want to see what ’s 
on the other side?” 

“Julien will be on the other side ... I have 
had a letter from him. I am to dine in Chantilly. 
He will send a car at seven to wait for me in the 
fields at the other side of the broken bridge, and 


200 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


trusts to me to find a boat. Come over the level 
crossing to the river.” 

They passed the station hut and came to a little 
landing stage near which a boat was tied. 

“There ’s a boat,” said Stewart. “Shall we ask 
at that hut?” 

The wooden hut stood above their heads on a 
pedestal of stono; from its side the haunch of the 
stone bridge sprang away into the air, hut stopped 
abruptly where it had been broken off. The hut, 
once perhaps a toll-house, was on a level with what 
had been the height of the bridge, and now it could 
be reached by stone steps which wound up to a 
small platform in front of the door. From within 
came men’s voices singing. 

“Look in here!” 

A flickering light issued from a small window, 
and having climbed the steps they could see in- 
side. Two hoys, about sixteen, a soldier and an 
old man, sat round a table beneath a hanging lamp, 
and sang from scraps of paper which they held in 
their hands. Behind the old man a girl stood 
cleaning a cup with a cloth. 

“They are practising something. Knock!” 

But there was no need, for a dog chained in a 
barrel close to them set up a wild barking. 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 201 

“Is he chained? Keep this side. The old man 
is coming.” 

The door opened. The voices ceased; the girl 
stood by the old man’s side. 

“Yes, it could be arranged. People still crossed 
that way; their boat was a sort of ferry and there 
was a charge. 

“There might be a little fog to-night, but it 
did n’t matter. Margot knows the way across 
blindfold — Margot would row the lady. She 
would be waiting with a lantern at five minutes to 
seven; and again at half past nine. Not too late 
at all! But Margot would not wait on the other 
side, it was too cold. They would lend the lady 
a whistle, and she must blow on it from the far 
bank.” 

“There ’s romance!” said Fanny, as they came 
away. 

“Not if you are caught.” 

“There ’s my magic luck!” 

“How dare you talk like that? Even if you are 
not superstitious, even if you don’t believe a word 
of it, why be so defiant — ^why not set the signs 
right!” 

“Oh, my dear Stewart, I hardly care! And to 
the creature who does n’t care no suspicion clings. 


202 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Haven’t I an honest face? Would you think it 
was me, me, of all the Section, to cross the river 
to-night, in a little boat with a lantern, to creep out 
of the house, out-^f the village, to dine forbidden 
in Chantilly, with some one who enchants me! 
You would n’t. Why, do you know, if I lived up 
in their house, under their eyes, I would go out 
just the same, to cross the river. I would n’t climb 
by windows or invent a wild tale to soothe them, 
but open the door and shut the door, and be gone. 
And would anybody say: ‘Where ’s Fanny?’ ” 

“They might.” 

“They might. But they would answer their own 
question : ‘Innocently sleeping. Innocently work- 
ing. Innocently darning, reading, writing.’ I 
don’t suspect myself, so why should any one else 
suspect me!” 

Fanny broke off and laughed. ^ 

“Come along and cut wood!” 

They moved off into the woods as people with 
not a care in the world, and coming upon a snow- 
covered stack of great logs which had been piled 
by some one else, began to steal one or two and 
drag them away into a deep woodland drive where 
they could cut them up without fear of being no- 
ticed. 

They worked on for an hour, and then Stewart 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 


203 


drew a packet of cake from her coat pocket, and 
sitting upon the logs they had their tea. 

Soon Fanny, wringing her hands, cried: 

“I ’m blue again, stiff again, letting the cold in, 
letting the snow gnaw. Where is the hatchet?” 

For a time she chopped and hacked, and Stew- 
art, shepherding the splinters which flew into the 
snow, piled them — splinters, most precious of all 
— petit bois to set a fire alight; and the afternoon 
grew bluer, deeper. Stewart worked in a reverie 
— Fanny in a heat of expectation. One mused re- 
posedly on life — the other warmly of the imme- 
diate hours before her. 

^‘Now I ’m going to fetch the car,” said Stewart, 
at last. ‘^Will you stay here and go on cutting till 
I come? There are two more logs.” 

She walked away up the drive, and Fanny picked 
the hatchet out of the snow and started on the 
leathery, damp end of a fresh log. It would not 
split, her tapping marred the white silence, and 
yet again she let the hatchet fall and sat down on 
the log instead. It was nearly six — they had spent 
the whole afternoon splitting up the logs, and mak- 
ing a fine pile of short pieces for fire-wood; the 
forest was darkening rapidly, blue deepened above 
the trees to indigo, and black settled among the 
trunks. Only the snow sent up its everlasting 


204 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


shine. Her thoughts fell and rose. Now they 
were upon the ground busy with a multitude of 
small gleams and sparkles — now they were up and 
away through the forest tunnels to Chantilly. 
What would he say first? How look when he met 
her? 

“Ah, I am a silly woman in a fever! Yet happy 
— for I see beauty in everything, in the world, upon 
strange faces, in nights and days. Upon what 
passes behind the glassy eyes” (she pressed her 
own) “depends sight, or no sight. There is a life 
within life, and only I” (she thought arrogantly, 
her peopled world bounded by her companions) 
“am living in it. We are afraid, we are ashamed, 
but when one dares talk of this strange ecstasy, 
other people nod their heads and say: ‘Ah, yes, 
we know about that! They are in love.’ And 
they smile. But what a convention — tradition — 
that smile!” 

There was no sound in the forest at all — not the 
cry of a bird, not the rustle of snow falling from 
a branch — but there was something deeper and 
remoter than sound, the approach of night. There 
was a change on the face of the forest — an effective 
silence which was not blankness — a voiceless ex- 
pression of attention as the newcomer settled into 
his place. Fanny looked up and saw the labyrinth 


PRECY-SUR-OISE 


205 


of trees in the very act of receiving a guest. 

what wretched earnest I am in,” she thought, 
suddenly chilled. ^‘And it can only have one end 
— parting.” But she had a power to evade these 
moods. She could slip round them and say to her- 
self: ‘‘I am old enough — I have learnt again and 
again — that there is only one joy — the Present; 
only one perfection — the Present. If I look into 
the future it is lost.” 

She heard the returning car far up the forest 
drive, and in a moment saw the gleam in its two 
lamps as they rocked and swayed. It drew up, 
and Stewart put out the lamps, ever remembering 
that their logs were stolen. There was still enough 
light by which they could pack the car with wood. 
As they finished Stewart caught her arm: ‘Took, 
a fire!” she said, pointing into the forest. Through 
a gap in the trees they could see a red glow which 
burst up over the horizon. 

“And look, behind the trees — the whole sky is 
illumined — What a fire!” As they watched, the 
glare grew stronger and brighter, and seemed about 
to lift the very tongue of its flame over the horizon. 

“It ’s the moon!” they cried together. 

The cold moon it was who had come up red and 
angry from some Olympic quarrel and hung like 
a copper fire behind the forest branches. Up and 


206 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


up she sailed, but paling as she rose from red to 
orang^, from orange to the yellow of hay; and at 
yellow she remained, when the last branch had 
dropped past her face of light, and she was drift- 
ing in the height of the sky. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE INN 

T hey drove back to the village and down to 
their isolated villa, and here on the road they 
passed ones and twos of the Section walking in to 
supper. 

‘^How little we have thought out your evasion!” 
whispered Stewart at the wheel, as they drew up 
at the door: ‘^Get out, and go and dress. I will 
take the car up to the garage and come back.” 

Fanny slipped in through the garden. What 
they called ‘‘dressing” was a clean shirt and silk 
stockings — but silk stockings she dared not put on 
before her brief appearance at supper. Stuffing 
the little roll into her pocket she determined to 
change her stockings on the boat. 

Soon, before supper was ended, she had risen 
from the table, unquestioned by the others, had 
paused a moment to meet Stewart’s eye full of 
mystery and blessing, had closed the door and was 
gone. 

She slipped down the road and across the field 

to the railway. There was a train standing, glow- 
207 


208 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


ing and breathing upon the lines, and the driver 
called to her as she ran round the buffers of the 
engine. Soon she was down by the riverside and 
looking for Margot. Though there was moonlight 
far above her the river banks were wrapped in fog 
that smelt of water, and Margot’s face at the hut 
window was white, and her wool dress white, too. 
She came down and they rowed out into the fog, in 
an upward circle because of the stream. Fanny 
could just see her companion’s little blunt boots, 
the stretched laces across her instep, and above, 
her pretty face and slant eyes. Hurriedly, in the 
boat she pulled off the thick stockings, rolled them 
up, and drew on the silk. A chill struck her feet. 
She wrapped the ends of her coat lightly round her 
knees and as she did so the roll of thick stockings 
sprang out of her lap and fell overboard into the 
fog and the river. 

“Mademoiselle goes to a party?” said Margot, 
who had not noticed. The soft sympathetic voice 
was as full of blessing as Stewart’s eyes had been. 

“Yes, to a party. And you will fetch me back 
to-night when I whistle?” 

“Yes. Blow three times, for sometimes in the 
singing at home I lose the sound.” 

The opposite bank seemed to drift in under the 
motionless boat, and she sprang out. 


THE INN 


209 


“A tout a I’heure, mademoiselle.” 

At the top of the hank the road ran out into the 
fog, which was thicker on this side. She walked 
along it and was lost to Margot’s incurious eyes. 
Here it was utterly deserted: since the bridge had 
been blown up the road had become disused and 
only the few who passed over by Margot’s boat 
ever found their way across these fields. She 
strayed along by the road’s edge and could dis- 
tinguish the blanched form of a tree. 

Strange that the fog should reach so much fur- 
ther inland on this side of the river. Perhaps the 
ground was lower. Standing still her ear caught a 
rich, high, throaty sound, a choking complaint 
which traveled in the air. 

“It is the car,” she thought. Far away a patch 
of light floated in the sky, like an uprooted search- 
light. 

“That is the fog, bending the headlights up- 
ward.” 

She stood in the center of the road and listened 
to the sound as it drew nearer and nearer, till sud- 
denly the headlights came down out of the sky 
and pierced her — she stood washed in light, and the 
car stopped. 

Beside the driver of the car was, not Julien, but 
a man with a red, swollen face like a Hindoo god 


210 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


made out of mahogany. Saluting, he said: “We 
are sent to fetch you, mademoiselle.” He held the 
door of the closed car open for her, she smiled, 
nodded, climbed in and sank upon the seat. 

“When you get to the lights of houses, mademoi- 
selle, will you stoop a little and cover yourself 
with this rug? It is not foggy in Chantilly and 
the street is very full.” 

“I will,” she said, “I T1 kneel down.” 

Something about his face distressed her. How 
came it that Julien trusted this new man? Per- 
haps he was some old and private friend of his who 
felt antagonistic to her, who disbelieved in her, who 
would hurt them both with his cynical impassivity. 

“I ’m fanciful!” she thought. “This is only 
some friend of his from Paris.” Paris sending 
forth obstacles already! 

In Chantilly she crouched beneath the rug — ^her 
expectations closing, unwandering, against her 
breast. Beams might pierce the glass of the car 
and light nothing unusUal; what burnt beneath was 
not a fire that man could see. Generals in the 
street walked indifferently to the Hotel of the 
Grand Conde. It was their dinner hour, and who 
cared that an empty car should move towards a 
little inn beyond? Now, she held armfuls of the 


THE INN 


211 


rug about her, buried from the light, now held her 
breath, too, as the car stopped. 

‘‘Now, mademoiselle!” 

And there stood Julien, at the end of the passage, 
he whom she had left, somber and distracted, a 
long twenty-four hours ago in Chantilly! She saw 
the change even while she flew to him. He was 
gay, he was excited, he was exciting. He was beau- 
tiful, admirable, he admired her. 

“Fanny, is it true? You have come?” and “Que 
vous etes en beaute!” 

Within, a table was laid for three — three chairs, 
three plates, three covers. He saw her looking at 
this. 

“We dine three to-night. You must condescend 
to dine with a sergeant. My old friend — Where 
is Alfred?” 

“I am here.” 

“My old friend — four years before the war. 
The oldest friend I have. He has heard — ” 

(“ — Of Violette. He has heard of Violette! 
He is Violette’s friend; he is against me!”) 

“I am so glad,” she said aloud, in a small voice, 
and put out her hand. She did not like him, she 
had an instant dread of him, and thought he beheld 
it too. 


212 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“I did not even know he was here,” said Julien, 
more gay than ever. ‘^But he is the sergeant of 
the garage, and I find him again. 

“ ‘What a help you T1 be, to say the least of it!’ 
You will drive her to the river, you will fetch her 
from the river! I myself cannot drive, I am not 
allowed.” 

The impassive man thus addressed looked neither 
gay nor sad. His little eyes wandered to Fanny 
with a faint critical indifference. (“Julien has 
made a mistake, a mistake! He is an enemy!”) 
She could not clearly decide how much she should 
allow her evening to be shadowed by this man, how 
deeply she distrusted him. But Julien was far 
from distrusting him. Through the dinner he 
seemed silently to brag to Alfred. His look said, 
and his smile said: “Is she not this and that, Al- 
fred? Is she not perfect?” His blue eyes were 
bright, and once he said, “Go on, talk, Fanny, talk 
Fanny, you have an audience. To-night you have 
two to dazzle!” Impossible to dazzle Alfred. 
Could he not see that? One might as easily dazzle 
a mahogany god, a little god alive beneath its cas- 
ing with a cold and angry life. Yet though at 
first she was silent, inclined to listen to Alfred, to 
hope that something in his tones would soothe her 
enemy fears, soon she could not help following 


THE INN 


213 


Julien’s mood. Should she want to be praised, she 
had it from his eye — or be assured of love, it was 
there, too, in the eye, the smile, the soft tone. Be- 
cause of Alfred, he could put nothing into words — 
because he must be dumb she could read a more 
satisfying conversation in his face. 

She began to think the occasional presence of a 
third person was an addition, an exciting disturb- 
ance, a medium through which she could talk with 
ease two languages at once, French to Alfred, and 
love to Julien. 

When they had finished dining Alfred left them, 
promising to come back with the car in half an 
hour, to take Fanny to the river. 

“You must like him!” said Julien confidently, 
when the door had closed. Fanny said she would. 
“And do you like him?” Fanny said she did. 

“I met him so many years ago. He was suffer- 
ing very much at the time through a woman. Now 
he will tell you he has become a cynic.” 

“Did she treat him badly?” 

“She ran away from him, taking his carriage 
and his two horses — ” 

“A beautiful woman?” interrupted Fanny, who 
liked details. 

“She might equally well have been magnificent 
or monstrous. She was over life-size, and Alfred, 


214 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


who is small, adored her. Everything about her 
was emphatic. Her hair was heavy-black, her 
skin too red. And never still, never in one place. 
Alfred had a house outside Paris, and carriage and 
horses to take him to the station. One night she 
took the horses, put them into the carriage and was 
seen by a villager seated upon the coachman’s box 
driving along the road. When she had passed 
him this man saw her stop and take up a dark fig- 
ure who climbed to the seat beside her. They — 
the woman and her probable lover, who never once 
had been suspected, and never since been heard of, 
drove as far as Persan-Beaumont, near here, where 
they had an accident, and turned the carriage into 
the ditch, killing one of the horses. The other they 
took out and coolly tied to the station railings. 
They took the train and disappeared, and though 
she had lived with Alfred two years, she never left 
a note for him to tell him that she had gone, she 
never wired to him about the horses, she never has 
written one since.” 

‘"^Enough to turn him into a cynic!” 

‘‘Not at first. He came to me, spent the night 
in my flat; he was distracted. We must have 
walked together a mile across my little floor. He 
could n’t believe she was gone, which was natural. 
And though next morning the horses were missing 


THE INN 


215 


and the coach-house empty, he could n’t be got to 
connect the two disappearances. He rang me up 
from the country where he went next day, saying 
earnestly as though to convince himself, ‘You know 
I ’ve got on to the Paris police about those horses.’ 
And later in the day, again: T hear there has 
been a good deal of horse-stealing all over the 
country.’ Then, when the horses were found, one 
dead, and the other tied to the station railings, he 
believed at once that she had taken them and 
would n’t talk one word more upon the subject. 
He sold the remaining horse.” 

“It was then he grew cool about women!” 

“Not yet. It was then that he met, almost at 
once, a young girl who insisted, in the most amazing 
fashion, that she loved him. He could not under- 
stand it. He came to me and said: ‘Why does 
she love me?’ 

“I thought she was merely intriguing to marry 
him, but no, he said : ‘There ’s something sincere 
and impressive in her tone; she loves me. What 
shall I do?’ 

“ ‘Why should n’t you marry her?’ I said. 

“And then he was all at once taken with the idea 
to such a degree that he became terrified when he 
was with her. ‘Suppose she refuses me,’ he said 
twenty times a day. ‘Ask her. It ’s simple.’ 


216 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘It ’s Staking too much. You say, “Ask her,” 
when all in a minute she may say no.’ 

“He got quite ill over it. The girl’s mother 
asked him to the house, the girl herself, though she 
saw him less and less alone, smiled at him as ten- 
derly as ever. And then there came a day when 
he left me full of courage, and going to her house 
he asked her to marry him. He met her alone by 
chance, and before asking her mother he spoke to 
the girl herself. She said no, point-blank. She 
said ‘Nothing would induce her to.’ He was so 
astonished that he did n’t stay a second longer in 
the house. He did n’t even come to me, but went 
back into the country, and then to England.” 

“But why did the girl — ?” 

“There is nothing to ask. Or, at any rate, there 
is no answer to anything. I suppose he asked him- 
self every question about her conduct, but it was 
inexplicable.” 

“He should have asked her twice.” 

“It never occurred to him. And he has told 
me lately that she refused him with such consid- 
ered firmness that it seemed unlikely that it was a 
whim.” 

“Well — poor Alfred! And yet it was only the 
merest chance, the merest run of bad luck — but it 


THE INN 


217 


leaves him, you say, with the impression that we 
are flawed?” 

terrible flaw. His opinion is that there is a 
deep coldness in women. In the brain, too, he feels 
them mortally unsound. Mad and cold he says 
now of all women, and therefore as unlike a normal 
man as a creature half-lunatic, half-snake.” 

‘‘He thinks that of all women, young or old?” 

“Yes, I think so. He tells me that whereas most 
men make the mistake of putting down womanly 
unreason to the score of their having too much 
heart, he puts it down to their having no heart at 
all, which he says is so mad a state that they are 
unrecognizable as human creatures.” 

“But — (alas, poor Alfred) — you have made a 
charming confidante of our love!” 

“Confidante? He will make the best. He is de- 
voted to me.” 

“To me?” 

“To anything, to any one I care for.” 

“Not to me. What you have told me is the key 
to his expression when he looks at me. If he is 
devoted to you it is not an unreasoning devotion, 
and he is judging me poisonous to you. As he 
has himself been hurt, he will not have you hurt. 
I wish he had never come. I wish he might never 


218 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


be my driver to the river, and your friend, and 
our enemy.” 

‘Tanny!” 

‘T wish it. I am unhappy about him, and un- 
happiness is always punished. While we were in 
Metz every one smiled at us; here every one will 
spy us out, scold, frown, punish — ” 

‘‘And your magic luck?” 

“Alfred threatens my luck,” she said. Then, 
with another look, “Are you angry with me? Can 
you love such a character?” 

“I love it now.” 

“You have never heard me when I scold, or cry 
or am sulky? . . .” 

“Never.” 

“But if I make the experiment?” 

“I could make a hundred experiments, but I 
make none of them. We cannot know what to- 
morrow may bring.” 

This she remembered suddenly with all her 
heart. 

“Come nearer to me, Fanny. Why are you sit- 
ting so far away?” 

She sat down nearer to him; she put all her 
fingers tightly round his wrist. 

“I am not always sure that you are there, Julien; 
that you exist.” 


THE INN 


219 


“Yet I am substantial enough.” 

“No, you are most phantom-like. It is the 
thought of parting that checks my earnestness; as 
though I had an impulse to save myself. It is the 
thought of parting that turns you into a ghost, al- 
ready parted with; that sheds a light of unreality 
over you when I am distant. Something in me 
makes ready for that parting, flees from you, and 
I cannot stay it, steals itself, and I cannot break 
through it. I have known you so short a time. 
I have had nothing but pleasure from you ; is n’t 
it possible that I can ^escape without pain?” 

“Is it?” 

“No, no, no!” She laid her cheek upon his 
hand. “Do something to make it easier. Must it 
be that when you go you go completely? Promise 
me at least that it will be gradual, that you will 
try to see me when you have taken up your other 
life.” 

“But if I can’t? If you are ordered back to 
Metz?” 

“Why should I be? But, if I am, promise me 
that you will try. If it is only an a'rtifice, be- 
guile me with it; I will believe in any prom- 
ise.” 

“You don’t need to ask me to promise; you know 
you don’t need to make me promise. Wherever 


220 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


you are sent I will try to come. Wherever — do 
you hear? Do you think that that ‘other’ life is 
a dragon to eat me up? That it will be such bliss 
to me that I shall forget you completely? It is n’t 
to be bliss, but work, hard work, and competition. 
It is the work that will keep me to Paris, not my 
happiness, my gaiety, my content with other faces. 
That would comfort me if I were listener, and you 
the speaker. But, Fanny, Fanny, I never met any 
one with such joy as you — it is you who change the 
forest and the inns we meet in, make the journeys 
a miracle. Don’t show me another face. We have 
been in love without a cloud, without scenes, with- 
out tears. You have laughed at everything. Don’t 
change, don’t show me some one whom I don’t 
know; not that sad face!’^ 

“This then!” She held up a face in whose eyes 
and smile was the hasty radiance his fervor had 
brought her — and at sight of it the words broke 
from him — “Are you happy so quickly?” 

“Yes, yes, already happy.” 

“Because I speak aloud of what I feel? What 
a doubting heart you have within you! And I 
believe you only pretend to distress yourself, that 
you may test whether I am sensitive enough to 
show the reflection of it. Come! Well — am I 
right?” 


THE INN 


221 


“Pardy. But I need not think. Oh, I am glad 
your feeling is so like mine, and like mine yours! 
I will let the parting take care of itself — yet there 
is one thing about which I cannot tell. What does 
your heart do in absence, what kind of man are 
you when there is no one but Alfred, who will say: 
‘Forget her’?” 

“What kind do you think?” ^ 

“While I am here beside you, you cannot even 
imagine how dim I might become. Can I tell? 
Can you assure me?” 

Dim she might become to him, but dim she was 
not now as she besought him with eyes that showed 
a quick and eager heart, eyes fixed on his face full 
of enquiry, sure of its answer, feigning doubt that 
did not distress her. 

“And I to you, and I to you?” he said, speak- 
ing in her ear when he had made her an answer. 
“Dim, too? Why do we never talk of your in- 
constancy? We must discuss it.” 

“Inconstancy! That word had not occurred 
to me. It was your forgetfulness that I 
dreaded.” 

“I shall not be unforgetful until I am incon- 
stant.” 

“Julien!” 

“My love!” 


222 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


^‘You can afford to tease me now you have me 
in such a mood!” 

"^Tn such a mood! Have I, indeed? Yet you 
will forget me before I forget you.” 

‘‘You tell me to my face that I shall change?” 
she asked. 

“Yes. And since you are bound to forget me, 
I insist at least that there shall be a reason for 
doing so. I would rather be a king dethroned 
than allowed to lapse like a poor idiot.” 

“You would? You can say that?” Her voice 
rose. 

“One instant, Fanny. Even when my teasing is 
out of taste, learn to distinguish it from what I 
say in earnest. My dear, my dear, why should 
you have to listen to the mutter of my philosophy 
and my experience which tells me all creatures for- 
get and are forgotten! No! I wipe out! You 
will not vanish — ” 

At this moment the door opened and Alfred 
entered the room. 

“The car is ready,” he said. “I have had trou- 
ble in getting here.” 

Fanny turned to him. “I am ready,” she said. 
“It is dreadful to have to trouble you to take me 
so late at night to the river.” 

“No, no — ” Alfred, glowing from the exercise 


THE INN 


223 


in the snowy night outside, was inclined to be more 
friendly, or at least less sparing of his words. 
"^‘Here are some letters that were at your lodging.” 
He handed three to Julien. 

“When do you dine with me again?” Julien, 
holding the letters, placed his hand upon her shoul- 
der. 

“I cannot tell what the work will be. Perhaps 
little, as the snow is deep.” 

“It is snowing again outside,” said Alfred. 

“Then the snow will lie even deeper, and there 
will be no work.” 

“Get her back quickly, Alfred, or the snow will 
lie too deep for you. I wiU send you a note, 
Fanny.” 

“That is quite easy, is it?” 

“Easy, But compromising.” 

“Oh, surely — not very?” 

“In France everything is compromising, made- 
moiselle,” said Alfred. “But he will find a way 
to send it.” 

Julien had urged her to hurry, fearing the snow; 
now he said, “You are going?” as though it dis- 
tressed him. 

“I must.” 

“Yes, you must, you must. Where is your 
leather coat? Here — ” 


224 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


He found it. 

“Stay! I must read this before you go. It is 
my demobilization paper with the final date. I 
will look—” 

“Are you coming?” called Alfred, from the end 
of the passage. “It is snowing wildly.” 

“There is some mistake,” muttered Julien, his 
eye searching the large unfolded document. 

“When, when — ?” Fanny, hanging on his 
words, watched him. 

“One moment. It is a mistake. Alfred! Al- 
fred, here, a minute!” 

“Look,” he said, when Alfred had re-entered 
the room. He handed the paper to him, and drew 
him under the light. “See, they say — ah, wait, 
did I register at Charleville or Paris?” 

“At Charleville. As an agriculturist. I re- 
member well.” 

“Then there is no mistake.” He folded up the 
paper, pinching the edges of the folds slowly with 
his thumb and finger nail. 

“Fanny, it has come sooner than I expected.” 

She could say nothing, but fastened her gaze 
upon his lips. 

“Much, much sooner, and there is no evading 
it. Alfred, I will bring her in a minute.” 

“The snow is coming down,” muttered the ma- 


THE INN 225 

hogany god, grown wooden again under the light, 
and retreated. 

^^It is worse for me; it has been done by my own 
stupidity. But in those days I didn’t know that 
you — ” 

“Oh, if you are thinking of breaking it to me — 
only tell me which day! To-morrow?” She 
moved up close to him. 

“Not to-morrow! No, no,” he said, almost re- 
lieved that it was better than she feared. “In five 
days, in five days. Oh, this brings it before me! 
I have no wish now for that release for which I 
have longed. Fanny, it is only a change, not a 
parting!” 

Alfred’s voice called sharply from without. 
“You must come, mademoiselle! Julien, bring 
her!” 

“One instant. She is coming. Fanny, I must 
think it out. Until I go — I shall have time — ^we 
will get you sent to Charleville, and to Charleville 
I must come often to see my land and my factory.” 

“How often?” 

“Often, I must — ” 

“How often?” 

“Once a week at least. Perhaps oftener. If 
we can only manage that!” 

“Julien!” Alfred returned and stood again in 


226 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the doorway. “This is absurd. I can never get 
to the river if you keep her.” 

“Go, go. I will arrange ! You will have a note 
from me to-morrow. Hurry, good-night, good- 
night!” 

She was in the car; now the door was shutting on 
her; yet once more he pulled it open, “Ah! Oh, 
good-night!” 

At the side of the car, the snow whirling round 
his head, Julien kissed her face in the darkness; 
Alfred, relentless, drove the car onward, and the 
door shutting with a slam, left him standing by the 
inn. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE RIVER 

T he indifferent Alfred drove his unhappy bur- 
den towards the river. Walled in by the 
rush of snowflakes about him he made what way 
he could, but it was well-nigh impossible to see. 
The lamps gave no light, for the flakes had built 
a shutter across the glass like a policeman’s dark 
lantern. The flying multitudes in the air turned 
him dizzy; he could not tell upon which side of 
the road he drove, and he could not tell what he 
would do when the wall beyond the outskirts of 
Chantilly forsook him. As to what was happen- 
ing below him, what ruts, ditches, pits or hillocks 
he was navigating, he had no idea; his ship was 
afloat upon the snow, sluggishly rolling and heav- 
ing as it met with soft, mysterious obstacles. 

Heaviness and gloom sat upon the velvet seat 
behind him. The white, wild night outside was 
playful and waggish compared with the black de- 
jection behind the opaque glass windows. 

Fanny, who could not see her hand move in the 
227 


228 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


darkness, saw clearly with other miserable and rov- 
ing eyes the road that lay before her. 

“Julien, good-by. Don’t forget me!” That she 
would say to him in a few days; that was the gate, 
the black portal which would lead her into the road. 
That she would say, with entreaty, yet no painful 
tones of hers would represent enough the entreaty 
of her heart that neither would forget the other. 
She thought of this. 

Not in wilful unreason, or in disbelief of his 
promise, she looked at this parting as though it 
might be final. Without him she could see no 
charm ahead. And yet . . . Tough, leathery 
heart — indestructible spinner she knew herself to 
be — no sooner should the dew fall from this en- 
chanting fabric, the web itself be torn, than she 
would set to work upon the flimsiest of materials 
to weave another. And with such weaving comes 
forgetfulness. She thought of this. 

Not four feet away, another mind, inscrutable to 
hers, was violently employed upon its own prob- 
lem. In this wild darkness the wall of Chantilly 
had bid him go on alone; it left him first without 
guide, second without shelter. He drove into the 
path of a rough and bitter storm which was attack- 
ing everything in the short plain between the forest 
and the town. It leapt upon him in an outbreak 


THE RIVER 


229 


of hisses; cut him with hailstones, swept up false 
banks of snow before him till the illusion of a road 
led him astray. He turned too much to the right, 
hung on the lip of a buried ditch, turned back 
again and saved himself. He turned too much to 
the left, tilted, hung, was in danger — yet found 
the center of the road again. Here, on this wild 
plain, the exposed night was whiter — blanched 
enough, foreign enough, fitful enough to puzzle the 
most resolved and native traveler. 

He arrived at a cross-roads. Yet was it a cross- 
roads? When roads are filled in level with the 
plain around them, the plain itself wind-chumed 
like a plowed field, when banks are rompishly 
erected, or melt unstably before the blows of the 
storm, it is hard to choose the true road from the 
false. He chose a road which instantly he saw to 
be no road. Too late. He pitched, this time not 
to recover. ‘‘A river — a river-bed!” was his hor- 
rified thought. Down went the nose of the car be- 
fore him, the steering-wheel hitting him in the chest. 
Down came Fanny and all her black thoughts 
against the glass at his back. The car had not 
fallen very far; it had slid forward into a snow- 
lined dyke, and remained, resting on its radiator, 
its front wheels thrust into the steep walls of the 
bank, its back wheels in the air. Alfred climbed 


230 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


down from a seat which had lost its seating power; 
Fanny opened the door and stepped from the black 
interior into the deep snow. The front lamps were 
extinguished and buried in the opposite bank, the 
little red light at the back shone upwards to heaven. 

“Well—” 

“Well!” 

“Are you hurt?” 

“Not at all. And you?” 

“Not a bit.” 

Their cold relations did not seem one whit 
changed from what they had been in the inn. 
Nothing had intervened but a little reflection, a 
little effort, and a vigorous jerk. Why should they 
change? They stood side by side in the noisy 
violence of the storm, and one shouted to the other: 
“Can you get her out!” and the other answered, 
“No.” 

“I will walk on to the river.” 

“You would never find it.” 

The truth of this she saw as she looked round. 

Alfred left her and descending into the dyke, 
went on his knees by the radiator and fumbled deep 
in the snow with his hand. A hissing arose as the 
heated water ran from the tap he had turned. He 
emptied the water from the generator; the tail light 
sank and went out. 


THE RIVER 231 

“No one will run into her,” he remarked. “No 
one will pass.” 

Aie — screamed the wind, and created a pillar of 
white powder. Fanny, losing her balance, one foot 
sank on the edge of a rut, and she went down on 
her hands; to the knees her silk-clad legs met the 
cold bite of the snow. 

“You must come back with me,” shouted Alfred 
in her ear. 

That seemed true and necessary; she could not 
reach the river; she could not stay where she was. 
She followed him. At the next ditch he put out 
his hand and helped her across. They had no 
lamp. By the light of the snow she watched his 
blue-clad legs as they sank and rose; her own sink- 
ing and rising in the holes he left for her, the buf- 
fets of wind unsteadying her at every step. She 
followed him. And because she was as green as a 
green bough which bursts into leaf around a wound, 
the disturbing, the exciting menace of her discovery 
brightened her heart, set her mind whirling, and 
overgrew her dejection. 

They gained the Chantilly wall, and experienced 
at once its protection. The howling wind passed 
overhead and left them in a lee ; the dancing snow- 
flakes steadied and dropped more like rain upon 
them; she moved up abreast of Alfred. 


232 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“I will take you back to the inn,” he said. 
“They will have a room there.” 

“Julien will have left and gone to his lodging.” 

“Yes, at the other end of the town,” answered 
Alfred, she fancied with a grim satisfaction. 
(“Though it is as well,” she thought; “there will 
be less scandal in the eyes of the innkeeper.”) 

“To-morrow morning, mademoiselle, I will fetch 
you at six with another car and its driver, Foss, a 
man whom I can trust. We will take you to the 
river, and on the return journey drag the Panhard 
from the ditch. It should be easy; she has not 
heeled over on her side.” 

“That will be marvelous. I cannot tell you how 
I apologize.” 

This, she began to See, was serious; her debt to 
the enemy Alfred was growing hourly. 

“No, no,” he said, as though he saw the thing 
in the light of common justice. “You have come 
over to dine with Julien; we must get you back to 
the river.” 

“Nevertheless it ’s monstrous,” she thought, 
“what he has to do for me.” 

But Alfred regarded it less as a friendly office 
towards Julien than as a duty, an order given by 
an officer. He was a sergeant, and four years of 
war had changed him from an irritable and inde- 


THE RIVER 


233 


pendent friend to a dogged and careful subordinate. 
He did not like Fanny any the more for the trouble 
she was giving him; but he did not hold her re- 
sponsible for his discomforts. She must be got 
to the river and to the river he would get her. 

Pray Heaven she never crossed it again. 

When they arrived on the pavement outside the 
inn, he said: ‘^Knock, mademoiselle, and ask if 
there is a room. It would be better that I should 
not be seen. Explain that the snow prevented you 
from returning. If there is a room do not come 
back to tell me, I shall watch you enter, and fetch 
you at six in the morning.” 

She thanked him again, and following his in- 
structions, found herself presently in a small room 
under the eaves — pitied by the innkeeper’s wife, 
given a hot brick wrapped in flannel by the inn- 
keeper’s daughter, warmed and cheered and, in a 
very short time, asleep. At half-past five she was 
called, dressed herself, and drank a cup of coffee; 
paying a fabulous bill which included two francs 
for the hot brick. 

At six came Alfred, again in a Panhard, seated 
beside Foss, the new driver, a pale man with a 
grave face. They moved off in a gray dawn which 
brightened as they drove. Beyond Chantilly wall 
the plain stretched, and on it the laboring wheel- 


234 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


marks of the night before were plainly marked. 
Alfred, beside the driver, let down a pane of glass 
to tell her that he had already been out with Foss 
and towed in the other car. She saw the ditch 
into which they had sunk, the scrambled marks 
upon the bank where she had been towed out. In 
ten minutes they were in the midst of the forest. 

Now, Fate the bully, punishing the unlucky, 
tripping up the hurried, stepped in again. The 
Panhard, which had been seized in a hurry by cold 
and yawning men, was not as she should be. 

“Is she oiled?” Foss had called to the real driver 
of the car. 

“She is . . . everything!” answered the man, in 
a hurry, going off to his coffee. She was not. 

Just as the approaching sun began to clear the 
air, just as with a spring at her heart Fanny felt 
that to be present at the opening of a fine day 
was worth all the trouble in the world, the engine 
began to knock. She saw Foss’s head tilt a little 
sideways, like a keen dog who is listening. The 
knock increased. The engine labored, a grinding 
set in; Foss pulled up at the side of the road and 
muttered to Alfred. He opened the bonnet, stared 
a second, then tried the starting handle. It would 
not move. Fanny let down the pane of glass and 
watched them in silence. “Not a drop,” said 


THE RIVER 


235 


Foss’s low voice. And later, “Oil, yes, but — find 
me the tin!” 

“Do you mean there is no oil, no spare oil — ” 
Alfred hunted vainly round the car, under the 
seats, in the tool box. There was no tin of oil. 

“If I had some oil,” said Foss, “and if I let her 
cool a little, I could manage — with a syringe.” 

They consulted together. Alfred nodded, and 
approached the window. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I am going on to the 
next village to get a tin of oil. There is a garage. 
Cars will be passing soon; I must ask you to lie 
covered with the rug in the bottom of the car; 
your uniform is very visible. Foss will remain 
with you.” 

Fanny lay down in the bottom of the car, fitting 
her legs among a couple of empty petrol tins; 
Foss covered her with the rug. A quarter of an 
hour went by, and above her she began to hear the 
voices of birds; below her the cold crept up. She 
had no idea how far the village might be, and it 
is possible that Alfred had had no idea either. A 
bicycle bell rang at her side; later she heard the 
noise of a car, which passed her with a rush. Ly- 
ing with her ear so close to the poor body of the 
motor she felt it to be but cold bones in a cemetery, 
dead, dead. 


236 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Outside in the road, Foss shaded his eyes and 
looked up the now sparkling road a hundred times. 
The motors increased; the morning traffic between 
Precy and Chantilly awoke; the cars were going 
in to the offices of the G. Q. C. Now and then 
Foss would come to the window of the car. “Don’t 
move,” he would say. The floor-boards were rat- 
tled by an icy wind that blew over the face of the 
snow and up under the car; the brown, silk legs 
lay prone and stiff between the petrol cans, life- 
less now to the knee. She was seized with fits of 
violent shivering. At one moment she had planned 
in her despair to call to Foss and tell him she 
would walk — but she had let the moment pass and 
now she put away the thought of walking on those 
lifeless feet. Besides, she would be seen — that 
well-known cap, bobbing back between the trees 
from Chantilly so early in the morning! 

“Oh, Honor of the Section, I am guarding you 
like my life!” She tried to raise her head a little 
to ease her neck. 

“Don’t move,” said Foss. 

Feet pattered past her; motors swept by; bicycle 
bells rang. 

“Foss,” she said. 

The soldier leant towards her and listened. 


THE RIVER 237 

^Thoose your own time, but you must let me sit 
up a moment. I am in pain.” 

‘^Then, now, mademoiselle!” 

She sat up, flinging the rug back, dazzled by the 
splendor of the forest, the climbing sun, the heavy- 
burdened trees. Behind her was a cart coming up 
slowly; far ahead a cyclist swayed in the ruts of 
the road. As they approached her she pleaded: 
‘They can’t know me! Let me sit up — ” 

But Foss knew only one master, his sergeant. 

“Better go down, mademoiselle.” 

She went down again under the black rug, close 
against the wind that lifted the floor-boards, wrap- 
ping her coat more tightly round her, folding her 
arms about her knees. 

“It must be nearly eight. I have an hour more 
before they come in to breakfast. Ah, and when 
they do, will one of them go into my bedroom with 
my letters?” 

She tried to pick out in her mind that one most 
friendly to her, that one who was to destroy her. 
She heard in spirit her cry: “Fanny is nt there 

She thought of Stewart who would have woke 
early, planning anxiously to save her. The faces 
of the guardians of the honor of the Section began 
to visit her one by one, and horror spread in her. 


238 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


Then, pushing them from her, attempting to escape: 
‘‘They are not all the world — ” But they were all 
the world — if in a strange land they were all to 
frown together. The thought was horrible. Time 
to get there yet! Alas, that the car was not facing 
towards Chantilly — so early in the morning! 

“Foss, Foss, don’t you see him coming?” 

“The road is full of people.” 

A car rushed beside them, yet never seemed to 
pass. The engine slowed down and a voice called : 
“What ’s up? Anything you want?” 

It was the voice of Roland Vauclin. Ah, she 
knew him — that fat, chiWish man, who loved gos- 
sip as he loved his food! To Fanny it seemed but 
a question of seconds before he would lift the rug, 
say gravely, “Good morning, mademoiselle,” be- 
fore he would rush back to his village spreading 
the news like a fall of fresh snow over the roofs. 
She lay still from sheer inertia. Had Foss an- 
swered? She could not hear. 

Then she heard him clear his throat and speak. 

“The Captain asked me to get a bit of wood for 
his fire, sir. I have a man in there gathering 
branches, while I do a bit of ‘business’ with the 
car.” 

“Oh, right! ... Go on!” said Vauclin to his 
own chauffeur. Again they were left alone. Talk 


THE RIVER 


239 


between them was almost impossible; Fanny was 
so muffled, Foss so anxiously watched for Alfred. 
The reedy singing between the boards where the 
wind attacked her occupied all her attention. The 
very core of a warmth seemed extinguished in her 
body, never to be lit again. She remembered their 
last fourier, or special body-servant, who had gone 
on leave upon an open truck, and who had grown 
colder and colder — ‘^and he never got warm again 
and he died, madame,” the letter from his wife had 
told them. 

‘T think he is coming! There is no one else on 
the road, mademoiselle. Will you look? I don’t 
see very well — ” 

She tried to throw off the rug and sit up, but 
her frozen elbow slipped and she fell again 
on the floor of the car. Pulling herself up she 
stared with him through the glass. Far up the 
white road a little figure toiled towards them, car- 
rying something, wavering as though the ice-ruts 
were deep, picking its way from side to side. 
Neither of them was sure whether it was Alfred; 
they watched in silence. Before she knew it was 
upon her a car went by; she dived beneath the rug, 
striking her forehead on the corner of the folding 
seat. 

‘‘Did they see? Was any one inside?” 


240 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘Tt was an empty car. Please be careful.” 

Foss was cold with rebuke. After that she lay 
still, isolated even from Foss. Ten minutes went 
by and suddenly Foss spoke — “Did you have to 
go far?” 

And Alfred’s hard voice answered “Yes.” 

Then she heard the two men working, tools clat- 
tering, murmured voices, and in ten minutes Foss 
said: “Try the starting handle.” 

She heard the efforts, the labor of Alfred at the 
handle. 

“He will kill himself — he will break a blood- 
vessel,” she thought as she listened to him. Every 
few minutes some one seized the handle and wound 
and wound — as she had never wound in her life — 
on and on, past the very limit of endurance. And 
under her ear, in the cold bones of the Panhard, 
not a sign of life! Not a sign of life, and, as 
though she could hear them, all the clocks in the 
world struck nine. 

The Guardians of the Honor would be in at 
breakfast now; they would be sitting, sitting — dis- 
cussing her absence. Stewart, upstairs, would be 
looking out of the window, watching the river, per- 
haps answering questions indifferently with her 
cool look, “Oh, in the garage — or walking in the 
forest. I don’t know.” Cough! She jumped as 


THE RIVER 


241 


the bones in the bottom of the car moved under 
her, and the engine breathed. The noise died out, 
Foss leapt to the handle and wound and wound, 
fiercely, like a man who meant to make her breathe 
again or die. Again she struggled to life, lived 
for a few minutes, choked and was silent. 

^^How is the handle?” 

‘Tretty stiff,” said Foss, ‘^‘but getting better. 
Give me the oil squirt.” 

Alfred took his place at the handle. Suddenly 
the car sprang to life again on a full deep note. 
Fanny lifted her head a little. Foss was leaning 
over the carburettor with his thin anxious look: 
Alfred stood in the snow, dark red in the face, and 
covered with oil. Soon they were moving along 
the road, slowly at first, and with difficulty; then 
faster and more freely. A little thin warmth be- 
gan to creep up through the boards and play about 
her legs. 

She was carried along under her dark rug for 
another twenty minutes, then fell against the seat as 
the car turned sharply into the forsaken road that 
led to the broken bridge. In five minutes more the 
car had stopped and Alfred was at the door saying: 
‘‘At last, mademoiselle!” She stammered her 
thanks as she tried to step from the car to the 
ground — but fell on her knees on the dashboard. 


242 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


‘‘Have you hurt your foot?” said Alfred, who 
was hot. 

“I am only cold,” she said humbly, unwilling 
to intrude her puny endurances on their gigantic 
labors. 

She sat on the step of the car rubbing her ankles, 
and stared at the meadows of thawing snow, at the 
open porches of stone which led the road straight 
into the river, at the church and the sunlit houses 
on the other side. 

Bidding them good-by she reached the bank, and 
climbed down it, stumbling in the frozen mud and 
pits of ice till she reached the stiff reeds at the 
bank. 

The river had floes of ice upon it, green ice 
which swung and caught among the reeds at the 
edge. “It is thin,” she thought, pushing her shoe 
through it, “it can’t prevent the boat from crossing 
the river.” Yet she was anxious. 

There on the other side was the little hut, the 
steps, the boat tied to the stone and held rigid in 
the ice. A shaggy dog ran by her feet to the 
river’s edge and barked. Feet came clambering 
down the bank and a workman followed the dog, 
with a bag of tools and a basket. He walked up 
to the river, and putting his hands in a trumpet to 
his mouth called in a huge voice: “Un passant, 


THE RIVER 


243 


Margot! Margot!” Fanny remembered her whis- 
tle and blew that too. 

There was no sign of life, and the little hut 
looked as before, like a brown dog asleep in the 
sun. Fanny turned to the man, ready to share 
her anxiety with him, but he had sat down on the 
bank and was retying a bootlace that had come un- 
done. 

Margot never showed herself at the hut window, 
at the hut door. When Fanny turned back to 
whistle again she saw her standing up in the boat, 
which, freed, was drifting out towards them — saw 
her scatter the ice with her oar — and the boat, 
pushed upstream, came drifting down towards them 
in a curve to hit the bank at their feet. The girl 
stepped out, smiling, happy, pretty, undimmed by 
the habit of trade. The man got in and sat down, 
the dog beside him. 

“I would stand,” said Margot to Fanny, ‘‘it ’s 
so wet.” 

She made no allusion to the broken appointment 
for the night before. Fanny, noticing the drip- 
ping boards of the boat, stood up, her hand upon 
Margot’s shoulder to steady herself. The thin, 
illusory ice shivered and broke and sank as the 
oar dipped in sideways. 

Cocks were crowing on the other side — the sun 


244 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


drew faint colors from the ice, the river clattered 
at the side of the boat, wind twisted and shook her 
skirt, and stirred her hair. All was forgotten in 
the glory of the passage of the river. 

Margot, smiling up under her damp, brown hair, 
took her five sous, pressed her town boots against 
the wooden bar, and shot the boat up against the 
bank. 

Fanny went up the bank, over the railway lines, 
and out into the road. Two hundred yards of road 
lay before her, leading straight up to the house. 
On the left was a high wall, on the right the com- 
mon covered with snow — should some one come 
out of the house there was no chance of hiding. 

She glanced down at her tell-tale silk stockings; 
yet she could not hurry on those stiff and painful 
feet. She was near the door in the wall. 

She passed in — the dog did not bark; came to 
the foot of the steps — nobody looked out of the 
window; walked into the hall among their hanging 
coats and mackintoshes, touched them, moved them 
with her shoulder; heard voices behind the door of 
the breakfast room, was on the stairs, up out of 
sight past the first bend, up, up, into Stewart’s 
room. 

‘‘Do they know . . .?’’ 

“No one knows!” 


THE RIVER 


245 


“Oh . . . oh . . All her high nerves came 
scudding and shuddering down into meadows of 
content. Eternal luck . . . She crept under Stew- 
art’s eiderdown and shivered. - 

“Here’s the chocolate. I will boil it again on 
my cooker. Oh, you have a sort of ague . . .” 

Good friend . . . kind friend! She had pic- 
tured her like that, unquestioning and warm! 

Later she went downstairs and opened the door 
of the breakfast room upon the Guardians of the 
Honor. 

As she stood looking at them she felt that her 
clothes were the clothes of some one who had spent 
hours in the forest — that her eyes gave out a gay 
picture of all that was behind them — her adven- 
tures must shout aloud from her hands, her feet. 

“Had your breakfast?” said some one. 

“Upstairs,” said Fanny, contentedly, and mar- 
veled. 

She had only to open and close her lips a dozen 
times, bid them form the words: “I have been out 
all night,” to turn those browsing herds of benevo- 
lence into an ambush of threatening horns, lowered 
at her. Almost . . . she would like to have said 
the sentence. 

But basking in their want of knowledge she sat 
down and ate her third breakfast. 


CHAPTER XV 


ALLIES 

A THAW set in. 

All night the snow hurried from the 
branches, slid down the tree trunks, sank into the 
ground. Sank into the moss, which suddenly un- 
covered, breathed water as a sponge breathes be- 
neath the sea; sank into the Oise, which set up a 
roaring as the rising water sapped and tunneled 
under its banks. 

With a noise of thunder the winter roof of the 
villa slipped down and fell into the garden — leav- 
ing the handiwork of man exposed to the dawn — 
streaming tiles, ornamental chimneys, unburied 
gargoyles, parapet, and towers of wood. 

In a still earlier hour, while darkness yet con- 
cealed the change of aspect, Fanny left the garden 
with a lantern in her hand. She had a paper in 
her pocket, and on the paper was written the order 
of her mission; the order ran clearly: ‘^‘To take one 
officer to the demobilization center at Amiens and 
proceed to Charleville” ; but the familiar words 
“and return” were not upon it. 

246 


ALLIES 


247 


She cast no glance back, yet in her mind sent no 
glance forward. She could not think of what she 
left; she left nothing, since these romantic forests 
would be as empty as tunnels when Julien was not 
there; but closing the door of the garden gate softly 
behind her, she blew out the lantern and hung it to 
the topmost spike, that Stewart, who was leaving 
for England in the morning, might bequeath it to 
their landlady. 

All night long the Renault had stood ready 
packed in the road by the villa — and now, starting 
the engine, which ran soundlessly beneath the bon- 
net — she drove from a village whose strangeness 
was hidden from her, followed the Oise, which 
rumbled on a new note, heard the bubbling of wild 
brooks through the trees, and was lost in the 
steamy moisture of a thawing forest. 

There was a sad, a deadly charm still about the 
journey. There was a bitter and a sweet comfort 
yet just before her. There were two hours of fare- 
well to be said at dawn. There was the sight 
of his face once more for her. That the man who 
slipped into the seat beside her at Chantilly was 
Julien dissolved her courage and set her heart 
beating. She glanced at him in that early light, 
and he at her. Two hours before them still. 

She was to carry him with her only to lose him 


248 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


surely; he was to accompany her on her journey 
only to turn back. 

All the way to Amiens he reassured himself and 
her: “In a week I will come to Charleville.” 

And she replied: “Yes, this is nothing. I lose 
you here, but in a week you will come.” 

(Why then this dread?) 

“In a week — in a week,” ran the refrain. 

“How will you find me at Charleville? Will 
you come to the garage?” 

“No, I shall write to the ‘Silver Lion.’ You will 
find in the middle of the main street an old inn 
with moldering black wood upon the window sashes. 
How well I know it! I will write there.” 

“We are so near the end,” she said suddenly, 
“that to have said ‘Good-by’ to you, to leave you at 
Amiens, is no worse than this.” 

And faster she hurried towards Amiens to find 
relief. He did not contradict her, or hid her go 
slower, but as they neared Amiens, offered once 
more his promise that they would meet again in a 
week. 

“It is n’t that,” she said. “I know we shall meet 
again. It is n’t that I fear never to see you again. 
It is the closing of a chapter.” 

“I, too, know that.” 


ALLIES 249 

They drove into Amiens in the streaming day- 
light. 

The rain poured. 

“I am sending you to tiiy home,” he said. 
“Every inch of the country is mine. You go to a 
town that I know, villages that I know, roads that 
I have walked and ridden and driven upon. You 
go to my country. I like to think of that.” 

“I shall go at once to see your house in Kevins.” 

“Yes — oh, you will see it easily — on the banks 
of the Meuse. I was bom there. In a week, in a 
few days’ short time — I will come, too.” 

She stopped the car in a side street of the town. 

Lifting her hands she said: “They want to hold 
you back.” Then placed them back on the wheel. 
“They can’t,” she said, and shook her head. 

He took his bag in his hand, and stood by the 
car, looking at her. 

“You take the three o’clock train back to Paris 
when the papers are through,” she said hurriedly 
with sudden nervousness. And then: “Oh, we’ve 
said everything! Oh, let ’s get it over — ” 

He held the side of the car with his hand, then 
stepped back sharply. She drove down the street 
without looking back. 

There was a sort of relief in turning the next 


250 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


corner, in knowing that if she looked back she 
would see nothing. A heavy shadow lifted from 
her; it was a deliverance. ‘‘Good-by” was said — 
was over; that pain was done — now 'for the next, 
now for the first of the days without him. She had 
slipped over the portal of one sorrow to arrive at 
another; but she felt the change, and her misery 
lightened. This half -happiness lasted her all the 
morning. 

She moved out of Amiens upon the St. Quentin 
road, and was almost beyond the town before she 
thought of buying food for the day. Unjustly, 
violently, she reflected: “What a hurry to leave me! 
He did not ask if I had food, or petrol, or a map — ” 

But she knew in her heart that it was because he 
was young and in trouble, and had left her quickly, 
blindly, as eager as she to loosen that violent pain. 

She bought a loaf of bread, a tin of potted meat, 
an orange and a small cheese, and drove on upon 
the road until she came to Warfusee. Wherever 
her thoughts fell, wherever her eye lay, his per- 
sonality gnawed within her — and nowhere upon her 
horizon could she find anything that would do in- 
stead. Julien, who had moved off down the street 
in Amiens, went moving off down the street of her 
endless thought. 

“I have only just left him! Can’t I go back?” 


ALLIES 


251 


And this cry, carried out in the nerves of her foot, 
slowed the car up at the side of the road. She 
looked back — no smoke darkened the landscape. 
Amiens was gone behind her. 

Again, on. In ten minutes the battlefields closed 
in beside the road. 

Julien was gone. Stewart was gone. Comfort 
and ease and plenty were gone. ‘‘But We are here 
again!” groaned the great moors ahead, and on 
each hand. The dun grass waved to the very edge 
of the road cut through it. Deep and wild stretched 
the battlefields, and there, a few yards ahead, were 
those poor strangers, the scavenging Chinamen. 

Upon a large rough signpost the word “Foucau- 
court” was painted in white letters. A village of 
spars and beams and broken bricks — yet here, as 
everywhere, returning civilians hunted like crows 
among the ruins, carrying beams and rusty stoves, 
and large umbrellas for the rain. 

At the next comer a Scotch officer hailed her. 

“Will you give me a lift?” 

He sat down beside her. 

“What do you do?” she asked. 

“I look after Chinamen.” 

“Ah, how lonely!” 

“It is terrible,” he replied. “Look at it! Dead 
for miles; the army gone, and I live with these 


252 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


little yellow fellows, grubbing up the Crumbs.” 

She put him down at what he called “my comer” 
— a piece of ground indistinguishable from the 
rest. 

“Is that where you live?” 

“Yes.” 

There was a black-boarded hut from whose 
funnel smoke exuded, and to this ran a track across 
the grass. She watched him walk along it, a 
friendless, sandy man, left over from the armies 
which had peopled the rabbit warren in the ground. 
The Renault loped on with its wolf-like action, and 
she felt a spring of relief that she lived upon mov- 
ing ground; passing on down the rickety road she 
forgot the little man. 

Ahead lay the terrible miles. She seemed to 
make no gain upon them, and could not alter the 
face of the horizon, however fast she drove. Iron, 
brown grass — ^brown grass and iron, spars of wood, 
girders, tom railway lines and stones. Even the 
lorries traveling the road were few and far be- 
tween. A deep loneliness was settled upon the 
desert where nothing grew. Yet, suddenly, from a 
ditch at the side of the road a child of five stared 
at her. It had its foot close by a stacked heap of 
hand grenades; a shawl was wrapped round it and 
the thin hands held the ends together. What child? 


ALLIES 


253 


Whose? How did it get here, when not a house 
stood erect for miles and miles — ^when not a coil 
of smoke touched the horizon! Yes, something 
oozed from the ground! Smoke, blue smoke! 
Was life stirring like a bulb under this winter ruin, 
this cemetery of village bones? 

She stopped the car. The child turned and ran 
quickly across a heap of dust and iron and down 
into the ground behind a pillar. “It must have 4 
father or mother below — ” The breath of the in- 
visible hearth coiled up into the air; the child was 
gone. 

A man appeared behind the pillar and Came to- 
wards the car. Fanny held out her cigarette-case 
and offered it to him. 

“Have you been here long?” she asked. 

“A month, mademoiselle.” 

“Are there many of you in this — village?” 
(Not a spar, not a pile of bricks stood higher than 
two feet above the ground.) 

“There are ten persons now. A family came 
in yesterday.” 

“But how are you fed?” 

“A lorry passes once a week for all the people 
in this district — within fifty miles. There are ten 
souls in one village, twenty in another, two in an- 
other. They have promised to send us huts, but 


254 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the huts don’t come. We have sunk a well now 
and it is drinkable, but before that we got water by 
lorry once a week, and we often begged a little from 
the radiators of other lorries.” 

“What have you got down there?” 

“It is the cellar of my house, mademoiselle. 
There are two rooms still, and one is watertight. 
The trouble is the lack of tools. I can’t build any- 
thing. We have a spade, and a pick and a ham- 
mer, which we keep between the ten of us.” 

“Take my hammer,” said Fanny. “I can get 
another in the garage.” 

He took it, pleased and grateful, and she left 
this pioneer of recolonization, this obstinate Crusoe 
and his family, standing by his banner of blue 
smoke. 

Another hour and a large signpost arrested her 
attention. 

“This was Villers Carbonel,” it told her, and be- 
neath it three roads ran in different directions. 
There was no sign at all of the village — not a brick 
lay where the signpost stood. 

Stopping the car she drew out her map and 
considered — and suddenly, out of nowhere, with a 
rattle and a bang, and a high blast on a mad little 
horn, a Ford arrived at her side upon the cross- 
roads. 


ALLIES 


255 


^^Got no gas?” enquired an American. She 
looked up into his pink face. His hood was 
broken and hung down over one side of the car. 
One of his springs was broken and he appeared to 
be holding the car upright by the tilt of his body. 
His tires were in rags, great pieces of rubber hung 
out beyond the mudguards. 

‘^Dandy car you’ve got!” he said with envy. 
‘Trench?” 

Soon he was gone upon the road to Chaulnes. 
His retreating back, with the spindly axle, the wild 
hood, the tom fragments of tire flying round in 
streamers, and the painful list of the body set her 
laughing, as she stood by the signpost in the desert. 

Then she took the road to Peronne. 

‘T won’t have my lunch yet — ” looking at the 
pale sun. Her only watch had stopped long since, 
resenting the vibrations of the wheel. She passed 
Peronne — uprooted railways and houses falling 
headforemost into the river, and beyond it, side 
roads led her to a small deserted village, oddly un- 
touched by shell or fire. Here the doors swung 
and banged, unlatched by any human fingers, the 
windows still draped with curtains were shut, and 
no face looked out. Here she ate her lunch. 

The rain had ceased and a little pale sunshine 
cheered the cottages, the henless, dogless, empty 


256 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


road. A valiant bird sang on a hedge beside her. 

With her wire-cutters she opened a tine of potted 
meat, and with their handle spread it on the bread. 

“Lord, how lonely it is — surely some door might 
open, some face look out — ” At that a little gust 
of wind got up, and she jumped in her seat, for the 
front door slammed and blew back again. 

“I could n’t stay here the night — ” with a shiver 
— and the bird on the branch sang louder than ever. 
“It ’s all very well,” she addressed him. “You ’re 
with your own civilization. I ’m right out of 
mine!” 

The day wore on. The white Sun, having 
finished climbing one side of the sky, came down 
upon the other. 

Here and there a man hailed her, and she gave 
him a lift to his village, talked a little to him, and 
set him down. 

A young Belgian, who had learned his English 
at Eton, was her companion for half an hour. 

“And you are with the French?” he asked. 
“How do you like the fellows?” 

“I like them very much. I like them enor- 
mously.” (Strange question, when all France 
meant Julien!) 

“Don’t you find they think there is no one else 
in the world?” he grumbled. “It is a delicious 


ALLIES 257 

theory for them, and it must be amusing to be 
French!” 

^'Little Belgium — ^jealous young sister, resentful 
of the charm of the elder woman of the world!” 

A French lieutenant climbed to the seat beside 
her. 

^^You are English, mademoiselle?” he Said, she 
thought with a touch of severity. He was silent 
for a while. Then: ^^Ah, none but the English 
could do this — ” 

‘mat?” 

“Drive as you do, alone, mademoiselle, amid 
such perils.” 

She did not ask to what perils he alluded, and 
she knew that his words were a condemnation, not 
a compliment. Ah, she knew that story, that the- 
ory, that implication of coldness! She did not 
trouble to reply, nor would she have known how 
had she wished it. 

They passed an inhabited village. From a door 
flew a man in a green bonnet and staggered in the 
street. After him a huge peasant woman came, 
and standing in the doorway shook her fist at him. 
“I ’ll teach you to meddle with my daughter,” she 
cried. 

“Those are the cursed Italians!” said the French 
lieutenant, leaning from the car to watch. 


258 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


A mile further on they came to a quarry, in 
which men prowled in rags. 

‘^Those are the Russians!” he said. And these 
were kept behind barbed wire, fenced round with 
armed sentries. 

She remembered an incident in Paris, when she 
had hailed a taxi. 

^^Are you an American?” asked the driver. 
^Tor you know I don’t much like driving Amer- 
icans.” 

'‘‘But I am English.” 

“Well, that ’s better. I was on the English 
Front once, driving for the French Mission,” the 
driver said. 

“Why don’t you like Americans?” 

“Among other things they give me two francs 
when three is marked!” 

“But once they gave you ten where three was 
marked!” 

“That’s all changed!” laughed the taxi-man. 
“And it ’s a long story. I don’t like them.” 

“Go away!” said France restlessly, pushing at 
the new nations in her bosom. “It ’s all done. 
Go back again!” 

“Are you an Ally?” said the Allies to each other 
balefully, their eyes no longer lit by battle, but 


ALLIES 


259 


irritable with disillusion — and each told his women 
tales of the others’ shortcomings. 

Along the sides of the roads, in the gutters, pick- 
ing the dust-heap of the battlefields, there were 
representatives of other nations who did not join in 
the intercriticism of the lords of the earth. Chi- 
nese, Arabs and Annamites made signs and gib- 
bered, but none cared whether they were in amity 
or enmity. 

Only up in Germany was there any peace from 
acrimony. There the Allies walked contentedly 
about, fed well, looked kindly at each other. 
There there were no epithets to fling — they had all 
been flung long ago. 

And the German people, looking curiously back, 
begged buttons as souvenirs from the uniforms of 
the men who spoke so many different languages. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE ARDENNES 

T he day wore on — 

The Sun came lower and nearer, till the half- 
light ran with her half -thought, dropping, sinking, 
dying. “Guise,” said the signpost, and a battle- 
ment stared down and threw its shadow across her 
face. “Is that where the dukes lived?” She was 
a speck in the landscape, moving on wheels that 
were none of her invention, covering distances of 
hundreds of miles without amazement, upon a 
magic mount unknown to her forefathers. Dark 
and light moved across the face of the falling day. 
Sometimes when she lifted her eyes great clouds 
full of rain were crossing the sky; and now, when 
she looked again the wind had torn them to shreds 
and hunted them away. The shadows lengthened 
— those of the few trees falling in bars across the 
road. A turn of the road brought the setting sun 
in her face, and blinded with light, she drove into 
it. When it had gone it left rays enough behind 
to color everything, gilding the road itself, the air, 

the mists that hung in the ditches, 

260 


THE ARDENNES 261 

Before the light was gone she saw the Ardennes 
forests begin upon her left. 

When it was gone, wood and road, air and earth, 
were alike stone-colored. Then the definite night, 
creeping forward on all Sides, painted out all but 
the road and the margin of the road — and with 
the side lights on all vision narrowed down to the 
gray snout of the bonnet, the two hooped mud- 
guards stretched like divers’ arms, and the 
blanched dead leaves which floated above from 
the unseen branches of the trees. 

Four cra 2 y Fords were drawn up in one village 
street, and as her lights flashed on a door she 
caught sight of the word “Cafe” written on it. 
Placing the Renault beside the Fords she opened 
the door. Within five Frenchmen were drinking 
at one table, and four Americans at another. The 
Americans sprang up and claimed her, first as their 
own kin, and then at least as a blood sister. They 
gave her coffee, and would not let her pay; but 
she sat uneasily with them. 

“For which nation do you work? There are no 
English here,” they said. 

“I am in the French Army.” 

“Gee, what a rotten job!” they murmured sym- 
pathetically. 

“Where have you Come from?” 


262 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“We ’ve just come back from Germany, and you 
bet it ’s good up there!” 

“Good?” 

“Every dam thing you want. Good beds, good 
food, and, thank God, one can speak the lingo.” 

“You don’t speak French then?” 

“You bet not.” 

“Why don’t you leam? Mightn’t it be useful 
to you?” 

“Useful?” 

“Oh, when you get back home. In business 
perhaps — ” 

“Ma’am,” said the biggest American, leaning 
earnestly towards her, “let me tell you one thing. 
If any man comes up to me back in the States and 
starts on me with that dam language — I ’ll drop 
him one.” 

“And German is easier?” 

“Oh, well, German we leam in the schools, you 
see. How far do you make it to St. Quentin?” 

“Are you going there on those Fords?” 

“We hope to, ma’am. But we started a convoy 
of twenty this morning, and .these here four cars 
are all we ’ve seen since lunch.” 

“I hardly think you ’ll get as far as St. Quentin 
to-night. And there ’s little enough to sleep in 


THE ARDENNES 263 

on the way. I should stay here.’’ She rose. ‘T 
wish you luck. Good-by.” 

She thanked them for their coffee, nodded to the 
quiet French table and went out. 

One American followed her. 

“Can you buzz her round?” he asked kindly, 
and taking the handle, buzzed her round. 

“I bet you don’t get any one to do that for you in 
your army, do you?” he asked, as he straightened 
himself from the starting handle. She put her 
gear in with a little bang of anger. 

“You ’re kind,” she said, “and they are kind. 
That you can’t see it is all a question of language. 
Everjr village is full of bored Americans with 
nothing to do, and never one of them buys a dic- 
tionary!” 

“If it ’s villages you speak of, ma’am, it is n’t 
dictionaries is needed,” he answered, “ ’tis plumb- 
ing!” 

She had not left them ten minutes before one of 
her tires punctured. 

“Alas! I could have found a better use for 
them than arguing,” she thought ruefully, regret- 
ting the friendly Americans, as she changed the 
tire by the roadside under the beam from her own 
lamps. 


264 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


When it was done she sat for a few minutes in 
the silent car. The moon came up and showed her 
the battlements of the Ardennes forest standing 
upon the crest of the mountains to her left. “That 
is to be my home — ” 

Julien was in Paris by now, divested of his uni- 
form, sitting by a great fire, eating civilized food. 
A strange young man in dark clothes — she won- 
dered what he would wear. 

He seemed a great many difficult miles away. 
That he should be in a heated room with lights, 
and flowers, and a spread table — and she under the 
shadow of the forest watching the moon rise, length- 
ened the miles between them ; yet though she would 
have given much to have him with her, she would 
have given nothing to change places with him. 

The road left the forest for a time and passed 
over bare grass hills beneath a windy sky. Then 
back into the forest again, hidden from the moon. 
And here her half -stayed hunger made her fanci- 
ful, and she started at the noise of a moving bough, 
blew her horn at nothing, and seemed to hear the 
overtaking hum of a car that never drew near her. 

Suddenly, on the left, in a ditch, a dark form 
appeared, then another and another. Down there 
in a patch of grass below the road she caught sight 
of the upturned wheels of a lorry, and stopping, got 


THE ARDENNES 


265 


down, walked to the ditch and looked over. There, 
in wild disorder, lay thirty or forty lorries and 
cars, burnt, twisted, wheelless, broken, ravaged, 
while on the wooden sides the German eagle, black 
on white, was marked. 

‘What — ^what — can have happened here!” 

She climbed back into the car, but just beyond 
the limit of her lights came on a huge mine crater, 
and the road seemed to hang on its lip and die for- 
ever. Again she got down, and found a road of 
planks, shored up by branches of trees, leading 
round on the left edge of the crater to firm land on 
the other side. Some of the planks were missing, 
and moving carefully around the crater she heard 
others tip and groan beneath her. 

“Could that have been a convoy caught by the 
mine? Or was it a dumping ground for the cars 
unable to follow in the retreat?” 

The mine crater, which was big enough to hold 
a small villa, was overgrown now at the bottom 
with a little grass and moss. 

On and on and on — till she fancied the moon, 
too, had turned as the sun had done, and started 
a downward course. It grew no colder, she grew 
no hungrier — but losing count of time, slipped on 
between the flying tree trunks, full of unwearied 
content. At last a light shone through the trees, 


266 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


and by a wooden bridge which led over another 
crater she came on a lonely house. ‘‘Cafe” was 
written on the door, but the shutters were tight 
shut, and only a line of light shone from a crack. 

From within came sounds of laughter and men’s 
voices. She knocked, and there was an instant 
silence, but no one came to answer. At length the 
bolts were withdrawn and the head of an old 
woman appeared through the door, which was cau- 
tiously opened a little. 

“An omelette? Coffee?” 

“You don’t know what you speak of! We have 
no eggs.” 

“Then coffee?” 

“No, no, nothing at all. Go on to Charleville. 
We have nothing.” 

“How far is Charleville?” 

But the door shut again, the bolts were shot, 
and a man’s voice growled in the hidden room be- 
hind. 

“Dubious hole. Yet it looks as though a big 
town were near — ” And down the next long slope 
she ran into Charleville. The town had been long 
abed, the street lamps were out, the cobbles wet 
and shining. 

On the main boulevard one dark figure hurried 
along. 


THE ARDENNES 


267 


‘‘Which is the Silver Lion?” she called, her voice 
echoing in the empty street. 

Soon, between rugs on a bed in the Silver Lion, 
between a single sheet doubled in two, she slept — 
propping the lockless door with her suitcase. 

The Renault slept or watched below in the court- 
yard, the moon sank, the small hours passed, the 
day broke, the first day in Charleville. 
















PART IV 

SPRING IN CHARLEVILLE 












CHAPTER XVII 


THE STUFFED OWL 

A STUFFED bird stood upon a windless branch 
— and through a window of blue and orange 
squares of glass a broken moon stared in. 

A bedroom, formed from a sitting-room, a. basin 
to wash in upon a red plush table — no glass, no 
jug, no lock upon the door. Instead — gilt mirrors, 
three bell ropes and a barometer. A bed with a 
mattress upon it and nothing more. 

This was her kingdom. 

Beyond, a town without lights, without a station, 
without a milkshop, without a meat shop, without 
sheets, without blankets, crockery, cooking pans, or 
locks upon the doors. A population half -fed and 
poor. A sky black as ink and liquid as a river. 

Prisoners in the streets, moving in green-coated 
gangs; prisoners in the gutters, pushing long scoops 
to stay the everlasting tide of mud; thin, hungry, 
fierce and sad, green-coated prisoners like bedrag- 
gled parrots, outnumbered the population. 

The candle of the world was snuffed out — and 
the wick smoked. 


271 


272 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


The light was gone — ^the blinding light of the 
Chantilly snows, the lights on the Precy river — 
moonlight, sunlight — the little boat crossing at 
moonrise, sunrise. 

“Ah, that long journey! How I pressed on, 
how I fled from Amiens!” 

“What, not Charleville yet?” she said. “Is n’t it 
Charleville soon? What hurry was there then to 
get there?” 

The stuffed bird eyed her from his unstirring 
branch, and that yellow eye seemed to answer: 
“None, none . . .” 

“This is his home; his country. He told me it 
was beautiful. But I cannot see beauty. I am 
empty of happiness. Where is the beauty?” 

And the vile bird, winking in the candle’s light, 
replied: “Nowhere.” 

But he lied. 

Perhaps he had been sent, stuffed as he was, 
from Paris. Perhaps he had never flown behind 
the town, and seen the wild mountains that began 
at the last house on the other bank of the river. 
Of the river itself, greener than any other which 
flowed over black rocks, in cold gulleys — the jade- 
green Meuse flowing to Dinant, to Namur. Per- 
haps from his interminable boulevard he had never 
seen the lovely Spanish Square of red and yellow. 


THE STUFFED OWL 


273 


i\s steep-roofed houses standing upon arches — or 
the proud Due Charles de Gonzague who strutted 
forever upon his pedestal, his stone cape slipping 
from one shoulder, his gay Spaniard’s hat upon his 
head — holding back a smile from his handsome 
lips lest the town which he had come over the 
mountains to found should see him tolerant and sin 
beneath his gaze. 

That bird knew the rain would stop — knew it in 
his dusty feathers, but he would not kindle hope. 
He knew there was a yellow spring at hand — but 
he left her to mourn for the white luster of Chan- 
tilly. Vile bird! . . . She blew out the candle 
that he might wink no more. 

^To-morrow I will buy a padlock and a key. If 
among these gilt mirrors I can have no other charm, 
I will have solitude!” And having hung a thought, 
a plan, a hope before her in the future, she slept 
till day broke — the second day in Charleville. 

She woke, a mixture of courage and philosophy, 
can stand anything, and beyond a certain 
limit misfortune makes me laugh. But there ’s no 
reason why I should stand this!” The key and 
padlock idea was rejected as a compromise with 
happiness. 

‘‘No, no, let us see if we can get something bet- 


274 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


ter to lock up than that bird.” He looked uncom- 
monly dead by daylight. 

would rather lock up an empty room, and 
leave it pure when I must leave it!” 

Dressing, she went quickly down the street to the 
Bureau de la Place. The clerks and secretaries 
nodded and smiled at each other, and bent their 
heads over their typewriters when she looked at 
them. 

‘‘Can I see the billeting lieutenant?” 

“He is not here.” 

“I saw him enter.” 

“We will go and see . . .” 

She drummed upon the table with her fingers 
and the clerks and secretaries winked and nodded 
more meaningly than ever. 

^^EntreZy mademoiselle. He will see you.” 

The red-haired lieutenant with pince-nez was 
upon his feet looking at her curiously as she en- 
tered the adjoining room. 

“Good morning, mademoiselle. There is some- 
thing wrong with the billet that I found you yes- 
terday?” 

She looked at him. In his pale-blue eyes there 
was a beam; in his creased mouth there was an up- 
ward curve. The story of legitimate complaint 
that she had prepared drooped in her mind; she 


THE STUFFED OWL 275 

looked at him a little longer, hesitated, then, risk- 
ing everything: 

‘‘‘Monsieur, there is a stuffed owl in the room.” 

He did not wince. “Take it out, mademoiselle.” 

“H’m, yes. I cannot see^heaven except through 
orange glass.” 

“Open the window.” 

“It is fixed.” 

Then he failed her; he was a busy, sensible man. 

“Mademoiselle, I find you a billet, I install you, 
and you come to me in the middle of the morning 
with this ridiculous story of an owl. It is n’t rea- 
sonable . . 

The door opened and his superior officer walked 
in, a stem captain with no crease about his mouth, 
no beam in his olive eye. 

Ah, now . . . Now the lieutenant had but to 
turn to his superior officer and she would indeed 
be rent, and reasonably so. 

“What is the matter?” said the newcomer. “Is 
something fresh needed?” 

The billeting lieutenant never hesitated a sec- 
ond. 

“Mon capUaine, unfortunately the billet found 
yesterday for this lady is unsuitable. The owner 
of the house returns this week, and needs the 

99 


room. 


276 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Have you some other lodging for her?” 

“Yes, mon capitaine, in the Rue de Cleves.” 

“Good. Then there is no difficulty?” 

“None. Follow me, mademoiselle, the street is 
near. I will take you to the concierge.^’’ 

She followed him down the Stairs, and caught 
him up upon the pavement. 

“You may think, mademoiselle, that it is be- 
cause I am young and susceptible.” 

“Oh, no, no . . .” 

“Indeed, I am young! But I slept in that room 
myself the first night I came to Charleville . . .” 

“My room with the owl? Do you mean that? 
Is it possible?” 

“Yes, I put him upon the landing. But even 
then I dared not break the window. Here is the 
street.” 

“How you frightened me when your captain 
came in! How grateful I am, and how delighted. 
Is the house here?” 

“Mademoiselle, I do not truly know what to do. 
It is an empty house’* 

“So much the better.” 

“But you are not afraid?” 

“Oh, no, no, not at all. Has it any furniture?” 

“Very little. We will see.” 

He pulled the bell at an iron railing, and the 


THE STUFFED OWL 


277 


gate opened. A beautiful face looked out of the 
window, and a young woman dalled: “Eh bien! 
More officers? I told you, mon lieutenant, we have 
not room for one more.” 

“Now come, come, Elise! Not so sharp. It is 
for the house opposite this time. Have you the 
key?” 

“But the house opposite is empty.” 

“It will not be when I have put mademoiselle 
into it.” 

“Alone?” 

“Of course.” 

The young concierge, under the impression that 
he was certainly installing his mistress, left the 
window, and came through the gate with a look of 
Impish reproof in her eyes. 

Together they crossed the road and she fitted 
the key into a green iron door let into the face of a 
yellow wall. Within was a courtyard, leading to 
a garden, and from the courtyard, steps in an inner 
wall led up into the house. 

“All this ... all this mine?” 

“All yours, mademoiselle.” 

The garden, a deserted tangle of fruit trees and 
bushes, fallen statues, arbors and grass lawn brown 
with fallen leaves, was walled in by a high wall 
which kept it from every eye but heaven’s. The 


278 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


house was large, the staircase wide and low, the 
rooms square and high, filled with windows and 
painted in dusty shades of cream. In every room 
as they passed through them lay a drift of broken 
and soiled furniture as brown and moldering as 
the leaves upon the lawn. 

“Who lived here?” 

“Who lived here?” echoed the concierge, and a 
strange look passed over his face. “Many men 
were here. Austrians, Turks, Bulgarians, Ger- 
mans, also.” 

“Were you, then, in Charleville all the time?” 

“All the time. I knew them all.” 

In her eyes there fitted the image of enemies 
who had cried gaily to her from the street as she 
leant out of the open window of the house op- 
posite. “Take anything,” she said, with a shrug, 
to Fanny. “See what you can make from it. If 
you can make one room habitable from this dust- 
heap, you are welcome. See, there is at least a 
saucepan. Take that. So much has gone from 
the house in these last years it seems hardly worth 
while to retain a saucepan for the owner.” 

“Who is the owner?” 

“A rich lady who can afford it. The richest 
family in Charleville. She has turned mechante. 
She will abuse me when she comes here to see this 


THE STUFFED OWL 


279 


— as though I could have saved it. Her husband 
and her son were killed. Georges et Philippe 
Georges was killed the first day of the war, and 
Philippe ... I don’t know when, but somewhere 
near here.” 

‘^You think she will come back?” 

“Sometimes I think it. She has such a sense of 
property. But her daughter writes that it would 
kill her to come. Philippe was the sun . . . was 
the good God to her.” 

“I must go back to my work,” said the lieu- 
tenant. “Can you be happy here in this empty 
house? There will be rats . . .” 

“I can be very happy — and so grateful. I will 
move my things across to-day. My companions 
. . . that is to say six more of us arrive in convoy 
from Chantilly to-morrow.” 

“Six more! Had you told me that before . . . 
But what more simple! I can put them all in here. 
There is room for twenty.” 

“Oh . . .” Her face fell, and she stood aghast. 
“And you gave me this house for myself! And 
I was so happy!” 

“You are terrible. If my business was to lodge 
soldiers of your sex every day I should be gray- 
haired. You cannot lodge with an owl, you can- 
not lodge with your compatriots . . .” 


280 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Yet you were joking when you said you would 
put us all here?” 

“I was joking. Take the house — the rats and 
the rubbish included with it! No one will dis- 
turb you till the owner comes. I have another, a 
better, a cleaner house in my mind for your com- 
panions. Now, good-by, I must go back to my 
work. Will you ask me to tea one day?” 

“I promise. The moment I have one sitting- 
room ready.” 

He left her, and she explored the upper story 
with the concierge. 

“I should have this for your bedroom and this 
adjoining for your sitting-room. The windows 
look in the street and you can see life.” Fanny 
agreed. It pleased her better to look in the street 
than into the garden. The two rooms were large 
and square. Old blue curtains of brocade still 
hung from the windows; in the inner room was a 
vast oak bed and a turkey carpet of soft red and 
blue. The fireplaces were of open brick and suit- 
able for logs. Both rooms were bare of any other 
furniture. 

“I will find you the mattress to match that bed. 
I hid it; it is in the house opposite.” 

She went away to dust it and find a man to help 


THE STUFFED OWL 


281 


her carry it across the road. Fanny fetched her 
luggage from her previous billet, borrowed six 
logs and some twigs from the concierge^ promising 
to fetch her an ample store from the hills around. 

All day she rummaged in the empty house — 
finding now a three-legged armchair which she 
propped up with a stone, now a single Venetian 
glass scrolled in gold for her tooth glass. 

In a small room on the ground floor a beautiful 
piece of tapestry lay rolled in a dusty comer. 
Pale birds of tarnished silver flew across its blue 
ground and on the border were willows and rivers. 

It covered her oak bed exactly — and by remov- 
ing the pillows it looked like a comfortable and 
venerable divan. The logs in the fire were soon 
burnt through, and she did not like to ask for more, 
but leaving her room and wandering up and down 
the empty house in the long, pale afternoon, she 
searched for fragments of wood that might serve 
her. 

A narrow door, built on a curve of the staircase, 
led to an upper story of large attics and her first 
dazzled thought was of potential loot for her bed- 
room. A faint afternoon sun drained through the 
lattice over floors that were heaped with household 
goods. A feathered bmsh for cobwebs hung on a 


282 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


nail; she took it joyfully. Below it stood an iron 
lattice for holding a kettle on an open fire. That, 
too, she put aside. 

But soon the attics opened too much for treasure. 
The boy’s things were everywhere, the father’s and 
the son’s. Her eyes took in the host of relics till 
her spirit was living in the lost playgrounds of 
their youth, pressing among phantoms. 

‘^Irons . . * For ironing! For my collars!” 

But they were so small, too small. His again — 
the son’s. ‘^Yet why should n’t I use them,” she 
thought, and slung the little pair upon one finger. 

Crossing to the second attic she came on all the 
toys. It seemed as though nothing had ever been 
packed up — dolls’ houses, rocking-horses, slates, 
weighing machines, marbles, picture books, little 
swords and guns, and strange boxes full of broken 
things. 

Returning to the floor below with empty hands 
she brooded by the embers and shivered in her 
happy loneliness. Julien was no longer some one 
whom she had left behind, but some one whom she 
expected. He would be here . . . how soon? In 
four days, in five, in six. There would be a letter 
to-morrow at the ‘‘Silver Lion.” Since she had 
found this house, this perfect house in which to 
live alone and happy, the town outside had changed. 


THE STUFFED OWL 


283 


was expectant with her, and full of his presence. 
But, ah . . . inhuman . . . was Julien alone re- 
sponsible for this happiness? Was she not weav- 
ing already, from her blue curtains, from her soft 
embers, from the branches of mimosa which she 
had bought in the marketplace and placed in a 
thin glass upon the mantelpiece, from the gracious 
silence of the house, from her solitude? 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Philippe’s house 

W HAT a struggle to get wood for that fire! 

Coal would n’t bum in the open hearth. 
She had begged a little wood from the cook in the 
garage, but it was wet and hissed and all her fire 
died down. Wood hadn’t proved so abundant on 
the hills as she had hoped. Either it was cut and 
had been taken by the Germans, or grew in solid 
and forbidding branches. All the small broken 
branches and twigs of winter had been collected 
by the shivering population of the town and drawn 
down from the mountains on trays slung on ropes. 

Stooping over her two wet logs she drenched 
them with paraffin, then, when she had used the last 
drop in her tin, got down her petrol bottle. “I 
shall lose all my hair one day doing this . . .” 

The white flame licked hungrily out towards her, 
but it too, died down, leaving the wet wood as 
angrily cold as ever. 

Going downstairs she searched the courtyard and 
the hay-loft, but the Bulgarians and Turks of the 

past had burnt every bit, and any twigs in the gar- 
284 


PHILIPPE’S HOUSE 285 

den were as wet as those which spluttered in the 
hearth. Then — up to the attics again. 

“I must have wood,” she exclaimed angrily, and 
picked up a piece of broken white wood from the 
floor. 

It had ‘‘Philippe Seret” scrawled across it in 
pencil. “Why, it’s your name!” she said won- 
deringly, and held the piece of wood in her hand. 
The place was all wood. There was wood here 
to last her weeks. Mouse cages — ^white mouse 
cages and dormouse cages, a wooden ruler with 
idle scratches all over it and “P. S.” in the comer 
— boxes and boxes of things he would n’t want, 
he ’d say if he saw them now: “Throw it away” — 
boxes of glass tubes he had blown when he was 
fifteen, boxes of dried modeling clay . . , 

“I must have wood,” she said aloud, and picked 
up another useless fragment. It mocked her, it 
would n’t listen to her need of wood ; it had “P. S.” 
in clumsy, inserted wires at the back. His home- 
made stamp. 

Under it was a gray book called “Grammaire 
Allemande.” “It was n’t any use your learning 
German, was it, Philippe?” she said, then stood 
stiU in frozen conjecture as to the use and goal of 
all that bright treasure in his mind — his glass-blow- 
ing, his modeling, the cast head of a man she had 


286 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


found stamped with his initial, the things he had 
written and read, on slates, in books. “It was as 
much use his learning German as anything else,” 
she said slowly, and her mind reejed at the edge of 
difficult questions. 

Coming down from the attics again she held one 
piece of polished chair-back in her hand. 

“How can I live in their family life like this,” 
she mused by the fire. “I am doing more. I am 
living in the dreadful background to which they 
can’t or won’t come back. I am counting the toys 
which they can’t look at. Your mother will never 
come back to pack them up, Philippe!” 

She made herself ehocolate and drank it from a 
fine white cup with his mother’s initials on it in 
gold. 

Work was over for the day and she walked down 
the main street by the “Silver Lion,” from whose 
windows she daily expeeted that Julien’s voice 
would call to her. 

“Mademoiselle has no correspondence to-day,” 
said the girl, looking down at her from her high 
seat behind the mugs and glasses. 

“He ought to be here to-day or to-morrow, as he 
has n’t written,” and even at that moment thought 
she heard hurrying feet behind her and turned 


PHILIPPE’S HOUSE 


287 


quickly, searching with her eyes. An old civilian 
ran past her and climbed into the back of a wait- 
ing lorry. 

“I am in no hurry,” she said, sure that he would 
come, and walked on into the Spanish Square, to 
stare in the shops behind the arcaded pillars. 
Merchandise trickled back into the empty town in 
odd ways. By lorry, train, and touring car, mer- 
chants penetrated and filled the shops with pro- 
visions, amongst which there were distressing 
lacks. 

The trains, which had now been extended from 
Rheims over many laborious wooden bridges, 
stopped short of Charleville by four miles, as the 
bridges over the Meuse had not yet been made 
strong enough to support a railroad. To the pas- 
senger train, which left Paris twice a week, one 
goods truck full of merchandise was attached — 
and it seemed as though the particular truck to ar- 
rive was singled out casually, without any regard 
to the needs of the town. As yet no dusters, sheets 
or kitchen pans could be bought, but to-day in the 
Spanish Square every shop was filled to overflow- 
ing with rolls of ladies’ stays ; even the chemist had 
put a pair in the comer of his window. Fanny 
enquired the cause. A truck had arrived filled 
with nothing but stays. It was very unfortunate, 


288 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


as they had expected condensed milk, but they had 
accepted the truck, as, no doubt, they would find 
means of selling them — for there were women in 
the country round who had not seen a pair for 
years. 

A man appeared in the Square selling boots 
from Paris — the first to come to the town with 
leather soles instead of wooden ones. Instantly 
there was a crowd round him. 

It was dark now and the electric street lamps 
were lit round the pedestal of the Spanish Duke. 
The organization of the town was jerky, and often 
the lights would come on when it was daylight and 
often disappear when it was dark. Where Ger- 
mans had been there were always electric light and 
telephones. No matter how sparse the furniture 
in the houses, how ragged the roof, how patched the 
windows — ^what tin cans, paper and rubbish lay 
heaped upon the floors, the electric light unfail- 
ingly illumined all, the telephone hung upon the 
wall among the peeling paper. 

A little rain began to fall lightly and she hur- 
ried to her rooms. There, once within, the pad- 
lock slipped through the rings and locked, the fire 
lighted, the lamps lit, the room glowed before her. 
The turkey carpet showed all its blues and reds — 
the mimosa drooped above the mantelpiece, the 


PHILIPPE’S HOUSE 


289 


willow palm in the jar was turning yellow and 
shedding a faint down. 

‘‘You must last till he comes to tea!” she rebuked 
it, but down it fluttered past the mirror on to the 
carpet. 

“He will be here before they all fall,” she 
thought, and propped her window open that she 
might hear his voice if he called her from the 
street below. 

She boiled her kettle to make chocolate, hanging 
it upon a croquet hoop which she had found in the 
garden — Philippe’s hoop. But Philippe was so 
powerless, he could n’t even stop his croquet hoop 
from being heated red-hot in the flames as a kettle 
holder . . . One must be sensible. He would 
allow it. That was the sort of device he would 
have thought well of. 

“He rushed about the town on a motor-bicycle,” 
the concierge had said, when asked about him. 
But that was later. There had been other times 
when he had rocked a rocking-horse, broken a 
doll’s head, sold meat from a wooden shop, fed a 
dormouse. 

“Did Philippe,” she wondered, “have adventures, 
too, in this street?” She felt him in the curtains, 
under the carpet like a little wind. 


290 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


The days passed. 

Each day her car was ordered and ran to Rheims 
and Chalons through the battlefields, or through 
the mountains to Givet, Dinant or Namur. 
Changes passed over the mountains as quickly as 
the shades of flying clouds. The spring growth, at 
every stage and age from valley to crest, shook like 
light before the eyes. There were signs of spring, 
too, in the battlefields. Cowslips grew in the 
ditches, and grass itself, as rare and bright as a 
flower, broke out upon the plains. 

A furtive and elementary civilization began to 
creep back upon the borders of the national roads. 
Pioneers, with hand, dog, and donkey carts, with 
too little money, with too many children, with 
obstinate and tenacious courage, began to establish 
themselves in cellars and pill-boxes, in wooden shel- 
ters scraped together from the debris of their for- 
mer villages. In those communities of six or seven 
families the re-birth and early struggles of civiliza- 
tion set in. One tilled a patch of soil the size of 
a sheet between two trenches — one made a fowl- 
yard, fenced it in and placed a miserable hen 
within. Little notices would appear, nailed to 
poles emerging from the bowels of the earth. 
‘‘Vin-Cafe” or ‘‘Small motor repairs done here.” 

All this was noticeable along the great national 


PHILIPPE’S HOUSE 


291 


roads. But in the side roads, roads deep in yellow 
mud, uncleared, empty of lorries and cars, no one 
set up his habitation. 

A certain lawlessness was abroad in the lonelier 
areas of the battlefields. Odds and ends of all the 
armies, deserters, well hidden during many months, 
lived under the earth in holes and cellars and used 
strange means to gain a living. 

There had been rumors of lonely cars which had 
been stopped and robbed — and among the settlers 
a couple of murders had taken place in a single 
district. The mail from Charleville to Montmedy 
was held up at last by men in masks armed with 
revolvers. ‘We will go out armed!” exclaimed 
the drivers in the garage, and polished up their 
rifles. 

After that, when the Americans in the camps 
around, hungry upon the French ration, or drunk 
upon the mixture of methylated spirits and whiskey 
sold in subterranean estaminets of ruined villages, 
picked a quarrel, there were deaths instead of 
broken heads and black eyes. “They must . • . 
they MUST go home!” said the French, turning their 
easy wrath upon the homesick Americans. 

Somewhere beyond Rheims the wreck of a 
cindery village sprawled along a side road. Not 
a chimney, not a pile of bricks, not a finger of 


292 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


wood or stone reached three feet high, but in the 
middle, a little wooden stake rose above the rub- 
bish, a cross-bar pointing into the ground, and the 
words ^^Vin-Cafe” written in chalk upon it. 
Fanny, who was thirsty, drew up her car and 
climbed across the village to a hole down which 
the board pointed. Steps of pressed earth led 
down, and from the hole rose the quarreling, fierce 
voices of three men. She fled back to the car, de- 
termined to find a more genial cafe upon a national 
road. 

The same day, upon another side road, she came 
on the remains of a village, where the road, instead 
of leading through it, paused at the brink of the 
river, over which hung the end spars of a broken 
bridge. 

‘T will make a meal here,” she thought, profiting 
by the check — and pulled out a packet of sand- 
wiches, driving her car round the comer of a wall 
out of the wind. Here, across the road, a donkey 
cart was standing, and a donkey was tied to a brick 
in the gutter. 

Upon the steps of a doorway which was but an 
aperture leading to nothing, for the house itself 
lay flat behind it and the courtyard was filled with 
trestles of barbed wire, a figure was seated writing 
earnestly upon it3 knees. She went nearer and 


PHJLIPPE’S HOUSE 


293 


saw an old man, who looked up as she approached. 

“Sir i . she began, meaning to enquire about 
the road — and the wind through the doorway blew 
her skirt tight against her. 

“I am identifying the houses,” he said, as though 
he expected to be asked his business. She saw by 
his face that he was very old — eighty perhaps. 
The book upon his knee contained quavering draw- 
ings, against each of which a name was written. 

“This is mine,” he said, pointing through the 
doorway on whose step he sat. “And all these 
other houses belong to people whom I know. 
When they come back here to live they have only 
to come to me and I can show them which house 
to go to. Without me it might be difficult, but I 
was the oldest man here and I know all the streets, 
and all the houses. I carry the village in my 
head.” 

“That is your donkey cart, then?” 

“It is my son’s. I drive here from Rheims on 
Saturdays, when he does n’t want it.” 

He showed his book, the cheap paper filled with 
already-fading maps, blurred names and vague 
sketches. The old man was in his dotage and 
would soon die and the book be lost. 

“I carry the village in my head,” he repeated. 
It was the only life the village had. 


294 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


So the days went on, day after day, and with 
each its work, and still no letter at the Silver Lion. 
Though vaguely ashamed at her mood, she could 
not be oppressed by this. Each cold, fine, bloom- 
ing day in the mountains made him less necessary 
to her, and only the delicate memory of him re- 
mained to gild the town. When hopes wither 
other hopes spring up. When the touch of charm 
trembles no more upon the heart it can no longer 
be imagined. 


CHAPTER XIX 


Philippe’s mother 

T he hom of a two days’ moon was driving 
across the window; then stars, darkness, dawn 
and sunrise painted the open square; till rustling, 
and turning towards the light, she awoke. At the 
top of the window a magpie wiped his beak on a 
branch, bent head, and tail bent to balance him — 
then dropped like a mottled pebble out of sight. 
She sat up, drew the table prepared overnight to- 
wards her, lit the lamp for the chocolate — ^thinking 
of the dim Andre who might pay his beautiful visit 
in turn with the moon and the sun. 

She got up and dressed, and walked in the spring 
morning, first to the breadshop to buy a pound of 
bread from the woman who would n’t smile . . . 
(so serious and puzzling was this defect that Fanny 
had once asked her: ^ Would you rather I did n’t 
buy my bread here?” ‘‘No, I don’t mind.”) 

Then to the market for a bunch of violets and 
an egg. 

And at last through the Silver Lion — for luck, 

opening one door of black wood, passing through 
295 


296 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the hot, sunny room, ignoring the thrilled glances 
of soldiers drinking at the tables, looking towards 
the girl at the bar, who shook her head, saying: 
“No, no letter for you!” and out again to the street 
by the other black door (which was gold inside). 

She passed the morning in the garage working 
on the Renault, cleaning her, oiling her — then eat- 
ing her lunch in the garage room with the Section. 

Among them there ran a rumor of England — of 
approaching demobilization, of military driving 
that must come to an end, to give place to the 
civilian drivers who, in Paris, were thronging the 
steps of the Ministry of the Liberated Regions. 

“Already,” said one, “our khaki seems as old- 
fashioned as a crinoline. A man said to me yes- 
terday: Tt is time mademoiselle bought her dress 
for the summer!’ ” 

(What dream was that of Julien, and of a sum- 
mer spent in Charleville! The noise of England 
burst upon her ears. She heard the talk at parties 
— faces swam up so close to hers that she looked 
in their eyes and spoke to them.) 

“And how the town is filling with men in new 
black coats, and women in shawls! Every day 
more and more arrive. And the civilians come 
first now! Down in the Co-operative I asked for a 
tin of milk, and I was told: ‘We are keeping the 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 


297 


milk for the Civils.’ Tor the Civils?’ I Said, for 
we are all accustomed to the idea that the army 
feeds first.” 

^'Oh, that ’s all gone! We are losing importance 
now. It is time to go home.” 

As they spoke there came a shrill whistle which 
sounded through Charleville. 

‘Tcoutel” said a man down in the street, and 
the Section, moving to the window, heard it again, 
nameless, and yet familiar. 

Unseen Charleville lifted its head and said, 
‘Tcoute.” 

The first train had crawled over the new bridge, 
and stood whistling its triumph in the station. 

As spring became more than a bright light over 
the mountains so the town in the hollow blossomed 
and functioned. The gate bells rang, the electric 
light ceased to glow in the daytime, great cranes 
came up on the trains and fished in the river for 
the wallowing bridges. Workmen arrived in the 
streets. In the early summer mornings tapping 
could be heard all about the town. Civilians in 
new black suits, civilians more or less damaged, 
limping or one-eyed, did things that made them 
happy with a hammer and a nail. They whistled 
as they tapped, nailed up shutters that had hung 
for four years by one hinge, climbed about the 


298 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


roofs and fixed a tile or two where a hundred were 
needed, brought little ladders on borrowed wheel- 
barrows and set them against the house-wall. In 
the house opposite, in the Rue de Cleves, a man 
was using his old blue putties to nail up his fruit- 
trees. 

All the men worked in new Sunday clothes; they 
had, as yet, nothing old to work in. Every day 
brought more of them to the town, lorries and 
horse carts set them down by the Silver Lion, and 
they walked along the street carrying black bags 
and rolls of carpet, boxes of tools, and sometimes 
a well-oiled carbine. 

^‘Yes, we must go home,” said the English- 
women. ‘Ht ’s time to leave the town.” 

The ^^Civils” seemed to drive them out. They 
knew they were birds of passage as they walked in 
the sun in their khaki coats. 

The ^^Civils” were blind to them, never looked at 
them, hurried on, longing to grasp the symbolic 
hammer, to dust, sweep out the German rags and 
rubbish, nail talc over the gaping windows, set 
their homes going, start their factories in the sur- 
rounding mountains, people the houses so long the 
mere shelter for passing troops, light the civilian 
life of the town, and set it burning after the ashes 
and the dust of war. 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 


299 


There were days when every owner, black- 
trousered and in his shirt-sleeves, seemed to be 
burning the contents of his house in a bonfire in 
the gutter. Poor men burned things that seemed 
useful to the casual eye — mattresses, bolsters, all 
soiled, soiled again and polluted by four years of 
soldiery. ^ 

Idling over the fire in the evening, Fanny’s eye 
was caught by a stain upon her armchair. It was 
sticky; it might well be champagne — the cham- 
pagne which stuck even now to the bottoms of the 
glasses downstairs. 

“I wonder if they will burn the chair — when 
they come back.” Some one must come back, 
some day, even if Philippe’s mother never came. 
She seemed to see the figure of the Turkish officer 
seated in her chair, just as the concierge had de- 
scribed him, stout, fezzed, resting his legs before 
her fire — or of the German, stretched back in the 
chair in the evening reading the copy of the West- 
fdlisches Volksblatt she had found stuffed down in 
the comer of the seat. 

How, how did that splash of wax come to be so 
high up on the face of the mirror? Had some one, 
some predecessor, thrown a candle in a temper? 
It puzzled her in the morning as she lay in bed. 

On the polished wooden foot of the bed was 


300 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


burnt the outline of a face with a funny nose. A 
child’s drawing. That was Philippe’s. The nurse 
had cried at him in a rage, perhaps, and snatched 
the hot poker with which he drew — and that had 
made the long rushing burn that flew angrily across 
the wood from the base of the face’s chin. ‘‘Oh, 
you ’ve made it worse!” Philippe must have gibed. 

(“B” — who wrote “B” on the wall? The Bul- 
garian — ) 

She fell asleep. 

The first bird, waking early, threw the image of 
the world across her lonely sleep. He squeaked 
alone, minute after minute, from his tree outside 
the window, thrusting forests, swamps, meadows, 
mountains in among her dreams. Then a fellow 
joined him, and soon all the birds were shouting 
from their trees. Slowly the room lightened till 
on the mantelpiece the buds of the apple blossom 
shone, till upon the wall the dark patch became an 
oil painting, till the painting showed its features — 
a castle, a river and a hill. 

In the night the last yellow down had fallen from 
the palm upon the floor. 

The common voice of the tin clock struck seven. 
And with it came women’s voices — women’s voices 
on the landing outside the door — the voice of the 
concierge and another’s. 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 


301 


Some instinct, some strange warning, sent the 
sleeper on the bed flying from it, dazed as she was. 
Snatching at the intialed cup of gold veining she 
thrust it behind the curtain on the window sill. An 
act of panic merely, for a second glance round the 
room convinced her that there was too much to be 
hidden, if hidden anything should be. With a 
leap she was back in bed, and drew the bedclothes 
up to her neck. 

Then came the knock at the door. 

^T am in bed,” she called. 

‘‘Nevertheless, can I come in?” asked the 
concierge. 

“You may come in.” 

The young woman came in and closed the door 
after her. She approached the bed and whispered 
— then glancing round the room with a shrug she 
picked up a dressing-gown and held it that Fanny 
might slip her arms into it. 

“But what a time to come!” 

“She has traveled all night. She is unfit to 
move.” 

“Must I see her now? I am hardly awake.” 

“I cannot keep her any longer. She was for 
coming straight here when the train came in at 
five. I have kept her at coffee in my house. Tant 
pis! You have a right to be here!” 


302 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


The concierge drew the curtain a little wider and 
the cup was exposed. She thrust it hack into the 
shadow; the door opened and Philippe’s mother 
walked in. She was very tall, in black, and a deep 
veil hung before her face. 

‘^Bonjour, madame,” she said, and her veiled 
face dipped in a faint salute. 

“Will you sit down?” 

She took no notice of this, but leaning a little on 
a stick she carried, said, “I understand that it is 
right that I should find my house occupied. They 
told me it would be by an officer. Such occupa- 
tion I believe ceases on the return of the owner.” 

“Yes, madame.” 

“I am the owner this house.” 

“Yes.” 

“May I ask of what nationality you are?” 

The concierge standing behind her, shrugged her 
shoulders impatiently, as if she would say, “I have 
explained, and explained again!” 

“I am English, madame.” 

The lady seemed to sink into a stupor, and bend- 
ing her head in silence stared at the floor. Fanny, 
sitting upright in bed, waited for her to speak. 
The concierge, her face still as an image, waited 
too. 

Philippe’s mother began to sway upon her stick. 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 303 

please sit down,” said Fanny, breaking the 
silence at last. 

‘‘When will you go?” demanded the old lady, 
suddenly. 

“Go?” 

“Who gave you that lamp? That is mine.” 
She pointed to a glass lamp which stood upon the 
table. 

“It is all yours,” said Fanny, humbly. 

“Mademoiselle borrowed it,” said the voice of 
the concierge. “I lent it to her.” 

“Why are my things lent when I am absent? 
My armchair — dirty, soiled, torn! Paul’s picture 
— there is a hole in the comer. Who made that 
hole in the comer?” 

“I didn’t,” said Fanny feebly, wishing that she 
were dressed and upon her feet. 

“Madame, a Turkish officer made the hole. I 
spoke to him about it; he said it was the German 
colonel who was here before him. But I am sure 
it was the Turk.” 

“A Turk!” said Philippe’s mother in bewilder- 
ment. “So you have allowed a Turk to cume in 
here!” 

“Madame does not understand.” 

“Oh, I understand well enough that my house 
has been a den! The house where I was bom — 


304 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


All my things, all my things — You must give that 
lamp hack!” 

“Dear madame, I will give everything hack, I 
have hurt nothing — ” 

“Not ruined my carpet, my mother’s carpet! 
Not soiled my walls, written your name upon them, 
cracked my windows, filled my room downstairs 
with rubbish, broken my furniture — But I am told 
this is what I must expect!” Fanny looked at her, 
petrified. “But I — ” she began. 

“You don’t understand,” said the young con- 
cierge, fiercely. “Don’t you know who has lived 
here? In this room, in this bed, Turks, Bulgars, 
Germans. Four years of soldiers, coming in one 
week and gone the next. I could not stop it! 
When other houses were burnt I would say to my- 
self, ‘Madame is lucky.’ When all your china was 
broken and your chairs used for firewood, could 
I help it? Can she help it? She is your last sol- 
dier, and she has taken nothing. So much has 
gone from this house it is not worth while to worry 
about what remains. When you wrote to me last 
month to send you the barometer, it made me smile. 
Your barometer!” 

“Begone, Elise.” 

“No, madame, no! Not till you come back with 
me. They should not have let you come alone. 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 305 

But you were always wilful. You cannot mean to 
live here?” 

“I wish this woman gone to-day. I wish to sleep 
here to-night.” 

“No, madame, no. Sleep in the house opposite 
to-night. Give her time to find a lodging — ” 

“A lodging! She will find a lodging soon 
enough. A town full of soldiers — ” muttered the 
old woman. 

“I think this is a question for the billeting lieu- 
tenant,” said Fanny. “He will explain to you that 
I am billeted here exactly as a soldier, that I have 
a right to be here until your arrival. It will be 
kind of you to give me a day in which to find an- 
other room.” 

“Where are his things?” said the old woman, un- 
heedingly. “I must go up to the attics.” 

A vision of those broken toys came to Fanny, the 
dusty heap of horses, dolls and boxes — ^the poor 
disorder. 

“You mustn’t, yet!” she cried with feeling. 
“Rest first. Sit here longer first. Or go another 
day!” 

“Have you touched them?” cried Philippe’s 
mother, rising from her chair. “I must go at once, 
at once — ” but even as she tried to cross the room 
she leant heavily upon the table and put her hand 


306 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


to her heart. ‘^Get me water, Elise,” she said, and 
threw up her veil. Her ruined face was gray even 
at the lips; her eyes were caverns, worn by the 
dropping of water, her mouth was folded tightly 
that nothing kind or hopeful, or happy might come 
out of it again. Elise ran to the washing-stand. 
Unfortunately she seized the glass with the golden 
scrolling, and when she held it to the lips of her 
mistress those lips refused it. 

^^That, too^ that glass of mine! Elise, I wish 
this woman gone. Why don’t you get up? Where 
are your clothes? Why don’t you dress and go — ” 

‘‘Madame, hush, hush, you are ill.” 

“Ah!” dragging herself weakly to the door, “I 
must take an inventory. That is what I should 
have done before! If I don’t make a list at once 
I shall lose something!” 

“Take an inventory!” exclaimed the concierge 
mockingly, as she followed her. “The house won’t 
change! After four years — it isn’t now that it 
will change!” She paused at the door and looked 
back at Fanny. “Don’t worry about the room, 
mademoiselle. She is like that — elle a des crises. 
She cannot possibly sleep here. Keep the room for 
a day or two till you find another.” 

“In a very few days I shall be going to Eng- 
land.” 


PHILIPPE’S MOTHER 


307 


“Keep it a week if necessary. She will be per- 
suaded when she is calmer. Why did they let her 
come when they wrote me that she was a dying 
woman! But no — elle est comme toujours — me- 
chante pour tout le monde” 

“You told me she thought only of Philippe.” 
“Ah, mademoiselle, she is like many of us! She 
has still her sense of property.” 


CHAPTER XX 


THE LAST DAY 

A round the Spanish Square the first sun-awn- 
ings had been put up in the night, awnings 
red and yellow, flapping in the mountain wind. 

In the shops under the arches, in the market in 
the center of the Square, they were selling anem- 
ones. 

“But have you any eggs?” 

“No eggs this morning.” 

“Any butter?” 

“None. There has been none these three days.” 
“A pot of condensed milk?” 

“Mademoiselle, the train did not bring any.” 
“Must I eat anemones? Give me two bunches.” 
And round the Spanish Square the orange awn- 
ings protecting the empty shop-fronts shuddered 
and flapped, like a gay hat worn unsteadily when 
the stomach is empty. 

What was there to do on a last day but look and 
note, and watch, and take one’s leave? The buds 

against the twig-laced sky were larger than ever. 
308 


THE LAST DAY 309 

To-morrow — the day after to-morrow ... it 
would be spring in England, too! 

^^Tenez^ mademoiselle,” said the market woman, 
“there is a little ounce of butter here that you may 
have!” 

The morning passed and on drifted the day, and 
all was finished, all was done, and love gone, too. 
And with love gone the less divine but wider world 
lay open. 

In the “Silver Lion” the patient girl behind the 
counter shook her head. 

“There is no letter for you.” 

“And to-morrow I leave for England.” 

“If a letter comes where shall I send it on?” 

“Thank you, but there will come no letter now. 
Good-by.” 

“Good-by.” 

It was the afternoon. Now such a tea, a happy, 
lonely tea — the last, the best, in Oharleville! 
Crossing the road from the “Silver Lion” Fanny 
bought a round, flat, sandwich cake, and carried 
it to the house which was her own for one more 
night, placed it in state upon the biggest of the gold 
and green porcelain plates, and the anemones in a 
sugar-bowl beside it. She lit the fire, made tea, 
and knelt upon the floor to toast her bread. There 
was a half-conscious hurry in her actions. 


310 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


(“So long as nobody comes!” she whispered. 
“So long as I am left alone!”) She feared the 
good-bys of the concierge, the threatened inventory 
of Philippe’s mother, a call of state farewell from 
the billeting lieutenant. 

When the toast was done and the tea made, some 
whim led her to change her tunic for a white jersey 
newly back from the wash, to put on the old danc- 
ing shoes of Metz — and not until her hair was 
carefully brushed to match this gaiety did she draw 
up the armchair with the broken leg, and prop it 
steadily beside the tea-table. 

But — 

Who was that knocking on the door in the street? 

One of the Section come on a message? The 
brigadier to tell her that she had some last duty 
still? 

“Shall I go to the window?” (creeping nearer 
to it). Then, with a glance back at the tea-table, 
“No, let them knock!” 

But how they knocked! Persistent, gentle — 
could one sit peacefully at tea so called and so be 
sought! She went up to the blue curtains, and 
standing half-concealed, saw the concierge brood- 
ing in the sunlight of her window-siU. 

“Is nobody there?” said a light voice in the hid- 
den street below, and at that she peered cautiously 


THE LAST DAY 


311 


over the edge of the stonework, and saw a pale 
young man in gray before her door. 

She watched him. She watched him gravely, 
for he had come too late. But tenderly, for she 
had been in love with him. The concierge raised 
her two black brows in her expressive face and 
looked upwards. Her look said: ^‘Why don’t 
you let him in?” 

Yet Fanny stood inactive, her hands resting on 
the sun-warmed stone. 

‘‘Julien is here — is here! And does not know 
that I go to-morrow!” 

But she put to-morrow from her, and in the still- 
ness she felt her spirit smiling for pleasure in him. 
She had mourned him once; she never would again. 

In her pocket lay the key of the street door, and 
the curtain-cord, long rotted and useless, dangled 
at her cheek. With a quick wrench she brought 
its length tumbling beside her on the sill, then 
knotted it to the key and let it down into the street. 

The young man saw it hang before his eyes. 

^‘Are you coming in?” said a voice above him. 
‘Tea is ready.” 

“Fanny!” 

“It has been ready for six weeks.” 

“Only wait — ” He was trying the key in the 
door. 


312 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

“What — still longer?” said the voice. 

He was gone from the pavement, he had entered 
her house, he was on her stair — the gray ghost of 
the soldier! 

She had a minute’s grace. Slipping her hand 
into the cupboard she drew out another cup and 
saucer, and laid the table for two. 

There was his face — ^his hands — at her door! 
But what a foreign gray body! 

“Come in. Ghost!” she said, and held out her 
hands — for now she cared at least for*'“he who 
cared” — lest that, too, be lost! Does a ghost kiss? 
Yes, sometimes. Sometimes they are ghosts who 
kiss. 

“Oh, Fanny!” Then, with a quick glance at the 
table, “You are expecting some one?” 

“You. How late you come to tea with me!” 

“But I — You did n’t know.” 

“I waited tea for you,” she said, and turning to 
a calendar upon a wooden wheel, she rolled it 
back a month. 

She made him sit, she made him drink and eat. 
He filled the room with his gaiety. He had no 
reasons upon his tongue, and no excuses; she no 
reproaches, no farewell. 

A glance round the room had shown her that 
there were no signs of her packing; her heavy 


THE LAST DAY 


313 


kitbag was at the station, her suitcase packed and 
in the cupboard. She put her gravest news away 
till later. 

“You came by the new train — that has arrived at 
last in Charleville?” 

“Yes, and I go up to Kevins to-night.” 

She paused at that. “But how?” 

“I don’t know,” he answered, smiling at her. 

Her eyes sparkled. “Could I?” (She had that 
morning delivered the car to its new driver.) “Of 
course. I could! I will, I will, I ’ll manage! 
You counted on me to drive you to Kevins?” 

“Will it be difficult to manage?” 

“No — 0 — But I must get out the car before 
dark or there will be no excuse — ” She pushed 
back her chair and went to the window. The sun 
was sinking over the mountains and the scenery in 
the western sky was reflected in the fiery pools be- 
tween the cobbles in the street. 

“I must go soon and get it. But how — ” She 
paused and thought. “How do you come down 
to-morrow?” 

“I don’t. I go on to Brussels. There is a car 
at Kevins belonging to my agent. He will take 
me to Dinant for the Brussels train.” 

“You are bound for Brussels? Yet you could 
have gone straight from Paris to Brussels?” 


314 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Yet I did n’t because I wanted to see you!” 

She took down her cap and coat from the nail 
on which they were hanging. 

“Need you go yet?” he said, withdrawing the 
clothes from her arm, and laying them upon a 
chair. She sat down again. 

“The sun is sinking. The town gets dark so 
quickly here, though it ’s light enough in the moun- 
tains. If I leave it till later the men will be gone 
home, and the garage key with them.” 

“You ’re right,” he said. “Put them on,” and 
he held the coat for her. “But once you have the 
car there ’s no hurry over our drive. Yes, fetch it 
quickly, and then we ’ll go up above Revins and 
I ’ll show you the things I have in mind.” 

“What things?” 

He drew out a fat, red note-book and held it up. 

“It ’s full of my thoughts,” he said. “Quick 
with the car, and we ’ll get up there while it ’s light 
enough to show you!” 

She slipped out under the apple-red sky, through 
the streets where the shadows of the houses lay 
black as lacquer. 

Before the locked gates of the garage the brig- 
adier lounged smoking his little, dry cigarettes. 

“We are on fire,” he said, pointing up the street 
at the mountain. “What an evening!” 


THE LAST DAY 315 

‘‘‘Yes, and my last!” she said. “Oh, may I have 
the key of the garage?” 

“But you Ve given up the car.” 

“Yes, I have, but — after to-morrow I shall never 
use your petrol again! And there are my bags 
to be taken to the station. Ah, let me have the 
key!” 

He gave her the key. 

“Don’t be long then. Yet I shall be gone in a 
few minutes. When you come in hang the key on 
the nail in the office.” 

Once more she wound up the Renault, drove 
from the garage, regained the Rue de Cleves, and 
saw him leaning from her window sill. 

“Julien, come down, come down!” she called up 
to him, and realized that it would have been better 
to have made her revelation to him before they 
started on this journey. For now he was staring 
at the mountains in an absorbed excited fashion, 
and she would have to check his flow of spirits, 
spoil their companionable gaiety, and precipitate 
such heavy thoughts upon him as might, she 
guessed, spread to herself. Between his disap- 
pearance from the window and the opening of the 
street door she had a second in which to fight with 
her disinclination. 

“And yet, if I ’ve neglected to tell him in the 


316 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


room,” she argued, “I can’t tell him in the street!” 

For looking up she saw, as she expected, the deep 
eyes of the concierge watching her as impersonally 
as the mountains watched the town. 

“There ’ll come a moment,” she said to herself 
as the street door opened and he joined her and 
climbed into the car, “when it ’ll come of itself, 
when it will be easy and natural.” 

By back streets they left the town, and soon upon 
the steep road had climbed through the belt of trees 
and out on to bare slopes. 

As they wound up the mountain, sitting so close 
together, she felt how familiar his company was 
to her, and how familiar his silence. Their 
thoughts, running together, would meet presently, 
as they had often met, at the juncture when his 
hand was laid upon hers at the wheel. But when 
he spoke he startled her. 

“How long has the railway been extended to 
Charleville?” 

“A fortnight,” she answered, upon reflection. 

“How about the big stone bridge on this side? 
The railway bridge?” 

“Why, that lies at the bottom of the river as 
usual.” 

“And have n’t they replaced it yet by a wooden 
one?” 


THE LAST DAY 


317 


“No, not yet.” 

“And no one is even working there?” 

“I have n’t been there lately,” she answered. 
“Maybe they are by now. Is it your railway to 
Kevins you are thinking of?” 

He was fingering his big note-book. 

“I can’t start anything till the railway runs,” he 
answered, tapping on the book, “but when it runs 
— I ’ll show you when we get up there.” 

They came to a quagmire in the red clay of the 
road. It was an ancient trap left over from the 
rains of winter, strewn with twigs and small 
branches so that light wheels might skim, with luck, 
over its shaking holes. 

“You see,” he said, pursuing his thought, “lor- 
ries would n’t do here. They ’d sink.” 

“They would,” she agreed, and found that his 
innocence of her secret locked her words more 
tightly in her throat. Far above, from an iron 
peak, the light of the heavy sun was slipping. Be- 
neath it they ran in shadow, through rock and moss. 
Before the light had gone they had reached the first 
crest and drew up for a moment at his request. 

Looking back to Charleville, he said, “See where 
the river winds. The railway crosses it three times. 
Can we see from here if the bridges are all down?” 
And he stood up and, steadying himself upon her 


318 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


shoulder, peered down at Charleville, to where man 
lived in the valleys. But though the slopes ahead 
of them were still alight, depths, distance, the 
crowding and thickening of twilight in the hollows 
behind them offered no detail. 

“I fear they are,” she said, gazing with him. 
“I think they are. I think I can remember that 
they are.” 

Soon they would be at the top of the long descent 
on Revins. Should she tell him, he who sat so 
close, so unsuspecting? An arrowy temptation 
shot through her mind. 

“Is it possible — Why not write a letter when 
he is gone!” 

She saw its beauty, its advantages, and she 
played with it like some one who knew where to 
find strength to withstand it. 

“He is so happy, so gay,” urged the voice, “so 
full of his plans! And you have left it so late. 
How painful now, just as he is going, to bid him 
think: ‘I will never see her face again!’ ” 

(How close he sat beside her! How close her 
secret sat within her!) 

“Think how it is with you,” pursued the tempt- 
ing voice. “It is hard to part from a face, but 
not so hard to part from the writer of a letter,” 


THE LAST DAY 319 

Over the next crest the Belgian Ardennes showed 
blue and dim in the distance. 

“Stop!” he said, holding up his hand. 

They were on the top of a high plateau ; she drew 
up. A large bird with red under its wings flapped 
out and hung in the air over the precipice. 

“See — the Meuse!” he said. “See, on its banks, 
do you see down there? Come to the edge.” 

Hundreds of feet below lay a ribbon-loop of 
dark, unstirring water. They stood at the edge of 
the rock looking down together. She saw he was 
excited. His usually pale face was flushed. 

“Do you see down there, do you see in this light 
— a village?” 

She could see well enough a village. 

“That ’s Kevins. And those dark dots be- 
yond — ” 

“I see them.” 

“My factories. Before the summer you T1 see 
smoke down there! They are partially destroyed. 
One can’t see well, one can’t see how much — ” 

“Julien!” 

“Yes?” 

“Have you never been back? Have you never 
seen what ’s happened?” 

She had not guessed this; she was not prepared 


320 THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 

for this. This was the secret, then, of his absorp- 
tion. 

“I ’ve not seen yet. I Ve not been able to get 
away. And the Paris factories have held me every 
minute. But now I ’m here, I ’m — I ’m wonder- 
ing — You see that dot beyond, standing sep- 
arate?” 

“Yes.” 

“That ’s where I sleep to-night. That ’s the 
house.” 

“But can you sleep there?” she asked, still 
shocked that she had not realized what this journey 
was to him. 

“Can I?” 

“I mean is the house ruined?” 

“Oh, the bouse is in bad order,” he said. “Not 
ruined. ‘Looted,’ my old concierge writes. She 
was my nurse a hundred years ago. She has been 
there through the occupation. I wrote to her, and 
she expects me to-night. To-night it will be too 
dark, but to-morrow before I leave I shall see what 
they have done to the factories.” 

“Don’t you know at all how bad they are?” 

“I ’ve had letters. The agent went on ahead five 
days ago and he has settled there already. But 
letters don’t tell one enough. There are little 
things in the factories — things I put in myself — ” 


THE LAST DAY 


321 


He broke off and drew her to another side of the 
plateau. ‘^See down there! That unfortunate 
railway crosses two more bridges. I can’t see now, 
but they ’re blown up, since all the others are. 
And such a time for business! It hurts me to 
think of the things I can’t set going till that railway 
works. Every one is crying out for the things 
that I can make here.” 

On and on he talked in his excitement, absorbed 
and planning, leading her from one point of view 
on the plateau to the other. Her eyes followed his 
pointing hand from crest to crest of the mountains 
their neighbors, till the valleys were full of creep- 
ing shadows. Even when the shades filmed his 
eager hand he held it out to point here and there as 
though the whole landscape of the mountains was 
printed in immortal daylight on his mind. 

“I can’t see,” she said. ‘Tt ’s iso dark down 
there. I can’t see it,” as he pointed to the spot 
where the Brussels railway once ran. 

‘‘Well, it ’s there,” he said, staring at the spot 
with eyes that knew. 

The blue night deepened in the sky; from east, 
west, north, south, sprang the stars. 

“Fanny, look! There’s a light in my house!” 

Fathoms of shade piled over the village and in 
the heart of it a light had appeared. “Marie has 


322 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


lit the lamp on the steps. I mustn’t be too late 
for her — I must soon go down.” 

“What, you walk? Is there a footpath down?” 

“I shall go down this mountain path below. 
It ’s a path I know, shooting hares. Soon I shall 
be back again. Brussels one week; then Paris; 
then here again. I ’ll see what builders can be 
spared from the Paris factories. They can walk 
out here from Charleville. Ten miles, that ’s noth- 
ing! Then we ’ll get the stone cut ready in the 
quarries. Do you know, during the war, I thought 
(when I thought of it), ‘If the Revins factories are 
destroyed it won’t be I who ’ll start them again. I 
won’t take up that hard mountain life any more. 
If they ’re destroyed, it ’s too discouraging, so let 
them lie!’ But now I don’t feel discouraged at 
all. I ’ve new ideas, bigger ones. I ’m older 
I ’m going to be richer. And then, since they ’re 
partly knocked down I ’ll rebuild them in a better 
way. And it ’s not only that — See!” He talked 
as though inspired by his resolves, shaken by ex- 
citement, and pulling out his note-book he tilted it 
this way and that under the starlight, but he could 
not read it, and all the stars in that sky were no 
use to him. He struck a match and held the feeble 
flame under that heavenly magnificence, and a puff 
of wind blew it out. 


THE LAST DAY 


323 


“^But I don’t need to see!” he exclaimed, and 
pointing into the night he continued to unfold his 
plans, to build in the unmeaning darkness, which, 
to his eyes, was mountain valleys where new fac- 
tories arose, mountain slopes whose sides were to 
be quarried for their stony ribs, rivers to move 
power-stations, railways to Paris and to Brussels. 
As she followed his finger her eyes lit upon the 
stars instead, and now he said, ‘There, there!” 
pointing to Orion, and now “Here, here!” lighting 
upon Aldebaran. 

As she followed his finger her thoughts were on 
their own paths, thinking, “This^is Julien as he 
will be, not as I have known him.” The soldier 
had been a wanderer like herself, a half -fantastic 
being. But here beside her in the darkness stood 
the civilian, the julien-to-come, the solid man, the 
builder, plotting to capture the future. 

For him, too, she could no longer remain as she 
had been. Here, below her was the face, the moun- 
tain face, of her rival. Unless she became one 
with his plans and lived in the same blazing light 
with them, she would be a separate landscape, a 
strain upon his focus. 

Then she saw him looking at her. Her face, 
silver-bright in the starlight, was as unreadable as 
his own note-book. 


324 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


“Are you sure,” he was saying, “that you won’t 
be blamed about the car?” 

“Sure, quite sure. The men have all gone 
home.” 

“But to-morrow morning? When they see it 
has been out?” 

“Not — to-morrow morning. No, they won’t say 
anything to-morrow morning. Oh, dear Julien — ” 
“Yes?” 

“I think, I hope you are going to have a 
great success here. And don’t forget — me — when 
you — ” 

“ — when I come back in a week!” 

“But your weeks — are so long.” 

“Yet you will be happy without me,” he said 
suddenly. 

“What makes you say that?” 

“You’ve some solace, some treasure of your 
own.” He nodded. “In a way,” he said, “I ’ve 
sometimes thought you ’re half out of reach of 
pain.” 

She caught her breath, and the starry sky whirled 
over her head. 

“You ’re a happy foreigner!” he finished. “Did 
you know? Dormans called you that after the 
first dance. He said to me: T wonder if they 


THE LAST DAY 


325 


are all so happy in England! I must go and see.’ ” 

^‘You too, you too!” she said, eagerly, and she 
wanted him to admit it. ‘^See how happy, how 
busy, how full of the affairs of life you soon will 
be! Difficulties of every sort, and hard work and 
triumph — ” 

^‘And you ’ll see, you ’ll see, I ’ll do it,” he said, 
catching fire again. ‘T ’ll grow rich on these bony 
mountains — it is n’t only the riches, mind you, but 
they are the proof — I ’ll wring it out in triumph, 
not in water, but in gold — from the rock!” 

He stood at the edge of the path, a little above 
her, blotting out the sky with his darker shape, then 
turning, kissed her. 

‘Tor a little time!” he §aid, and disappeared. 

The noise of his footsteps descended in the night 
below. Ten minutes passed, and as each step trod 
innocently away from her forever she continued 
motionless and silent to listen from her rock. The 
noises all but faded, yet, loath to put an end to the 
soft rustle, she listened while it grew fainter and 
less human to her ear, till it mingled at last with 
the rustle of nature, with the whine of the wind 
and the pit-pat of a little creature close at hand. 

She stirred at last, and turned; and found her- 
self alone with that flock of enormous companions, 


326 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


the hog-backed mountains, like cattle feeding about 
her. Above, uniting craggy horn to horn, was an 
architrave of stars. 

^^Good-by” — to the light in the valley, and start- 
ing the car she began the descent on Charleville. 
There are moments when the roll of the world is 
perceptible to the extravagant senses. There are 
moments when the glamour of man thins away into 
oblivion before the magic of night, when his face 
fades and his voice is silenced before that wind 
of excited perception that blows out of nowhere 
to shake the soul. 

In such a mood, in such a giddy hour, seated in 
person upon her car, in spirit upon her imagination, 
Fanny rode down the mountain into the night. 

She was invincible, inattentive to the voice of 
absent man, a hard, a hollow goddess, a flute for 
the piping of heaven — composing and chanting un- 
musical songs, her inner ear fastened upon another 
melody. And heaven, protecting a creature at that 
moment so estranged from earth, led her down the 
wild road, held back the threatening forest 
branches, brought her, all but standing up at the 
wheel like a lunatic, safely to the foot of the last 
hill. 

Recalled to earth by the lights of Charleville she 
drove slowly up the main street, replaced the car 


THE LAST DAY 327 

in the garage, and returned to her house in the 
Rue de Cleves. 

‘Tt is true,” she whispered, as she entered the 
room, ‘^Hhat I am half out of reach of pain — ” and 
long, in plans for the :^ture, she hung over the 
embers. 

The gradual sinking of the light before her re- 
minded her of the present. ‘‘The last night that 
the fire bums for me!” She heaped on all her 
logs. 

“Little pannikin of chocolate, little companion!” 
Hunger, too, awoke, and she dropped two sticks of 
chocolate into the water. “The fire dies down to- 
night. To-morrow I shall be gone.” A petal from 
the apple blossom on the mantelpiece fell against 
her hand. 

“To-morrow I shall be gone. The apple blossom 
is spread to large wax flowers, and the flowers will 
fall and never breed apples. They will sweep this 
room, and Philippe’s mother will come and sit in 
it and make it sad. So many things happen in the 
evening. So many unripe thoughts ripen before 
the fire. Turk, Bulgar, German — Me. Never to 
return. When she comes into the room the apple 
flowers will stare at her across the desert of my 
absence, and wonder who she is! I wonder if I 
can teach her anything. Will she keep the grill 


328 


THE HAPPY FOREIGNER 


on the wood fire? And the blue birds flying on 
the bed? It is like going out of life — tenderly 
leaving one’s little arrangements to the next 
comer — ” 

And drawing her chair up to the table, she lit 
the lamp, and sat down to write her letter. 










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